Break your heart to save your life
by timeworn grace
Summary: AU, set right after Theatricality. The next time Kurt Hummel encounters Azimio and Karovsky could change things for all of them. Love Glee, but it's not mine.
1. Chapter 1

4:00

Over the last few weeks, Kurt had been amused to notice, the Glee club had tended to park their cars together, clustered around his SUV as if they were a herd of some sort of strange metallic beasts huddled together for protection. Maybe it was just that they all left at the same time after practice, but it seemed, well, friendly. That Friday afternoon, Rachel's gold Prius and Mercedes' hand-me-down sedan sat companionably alongside Puck's ancient, beat up, rust bucket of a truck and Mike's decrepit Honda. Artie's father's van idled near the little group -Finn was helping with the wheelchair access lift.

Halfway across the parking lot, Kurt stopped dead in his tracks, making Mercedes, who had been close on his heels talking animatedly with Tina and Artie, swerve sharply around him.

"What are you doing, dude?" groused Puck, sweeping fast-food bags off the seat so Matt could get in. "You nearly caused a four-geek pileup. Not that that wouldn't be hi-lar-i-ous..."

"Forgot my jacket," Kurt said apologetically to Mercedes. Her answering grin was forgiving, and she gave him a one-armed hug as she moved past him. "My phone is in it. Can't make it through the night if I can't text you on Friday Night Lights - I guess Finn and Dad are hoping there's a common ground between me and them in a football drama, but I just can't bear to tell them it makes me want to weep at the hideous fashion errors, and they totally don't want to hear about how hot I think Luke is. See you tomorrow? Bring Quinn; she looks like she could use a spa day." He nodded towards the car where Quinn was leaning tiredly against the door, which diverted Mercedes' new-found protective instinct to the blonde, instead.

He turned to catch Puck's exaggerated eye-roll as he slid into the car. "It's a brand new Armani, Noah, not that I expect you to understand." Puck just waved a "whateva" hand at him and started the engine with a couple of loud revs. "And I could totally fix that loose belt," Kurt muttered as the truck roared away with a painfully loud squeal. He waved at Brit and Santana as they squeezed into the Honda, practically in each others' laps.

Rachel stopped a little ahead of him, looking at him uncertainly for a moment. He raised an inquiring eyebrow at her, (he'd been practicing that, it had looked so cool in the Star Trek reboot when ZQ had done it, even if he'd only gone because Artie had wanted to see it) and she turned and took two more steps toward her car before spinning around. "Look, I still haven't completely forgiven you for your 'makeover' advice. In addition, I know, I'm your closest rival for the drama queen tiara around here, but..." She moved a little closer, her voice softening a little bit. "What happened the other day with those two Neanderthals was... intense. Do you want me to go back in with you? Or," she glanced over to where Finn was now closing the van's door and getting ready to climb into the passenger's seat, "I'll let Finn know to wait for you?"

Advice from Mary Poppins popped into his head -"Close your mouth, Michael, we are not codfish"- and he followed it, and found himself offering her a small smile. Rachel Berry, he thought, worrying about him. "I'll be fine," he reassured her, waving off Finn, who had hesitated, looking back at the two of them. The van rolled slowly away, and Kurt turned back to Rachel, gesturing at the nearly empty parking lot. "Looks like we're the only ones left, except Mr. Schuester and Ms. Sylvester. The janitors are still here. And trust me; I'll hit that F if I need to scream for help. Besides, Finn has work tonight and I don't want to make him late. Artie's father is going that way anyway." That made her smile a little, but she still looked concerned, as she dug out her keys and headed for her car.

He felt bad enough that Finn and his mom had moved back home after the "incident" over the room decor. He really didn't want to have Finn feeling like now he needed to watch over him every minute to prove himself. Tonight's football fun was all about trying to mend those fences and rebuild a family he hadn't known he wanted until it felt like it would be impossible.

He knew both he and Finn had been wrong. Sometimes he forgot just how much his taste didn't translate to anything Lima was ready for. And particularly Finn, who still had cowboy wallpaper in his room at home. He'd also heard about the razzing Finn had gotten from Azimio and Karovsky. No wonder Finn had freaked. Not that he was excusing the word itself, but once he'd gotten over the shock of having heard someone he liked, someone he trusted, using it like the weapon it was, and of his father's reaction to it... he could concede that Finn had had a right to be freaked over having them move him into their house without so much as a head's-up, and that while sharing a room had sounded great in theory, he had missed his own pristine little haven when it came to the reality. (It had made Kurt uncomfortable watching how tentative Finn had been in the Hummel house, keeping all his stuff packed in the boxes he'd brought and trying not to "be in the way" while they tried to figure out how to fit together as a new family).

And he really should have had Finn help him redecorate the room. That had really not been fair, he realized in retrospect.

But he'd missed Carole more than he'd imagined he would, and while it had taken some time for her to get over her own anger, she and Burt had agreed that maybe they had moved too fast for the good of both boys, and that they were willing to try again, with more caution and less haste this time.

Kurt opened the SUV's back door and tucked his messenger bag into the back seat, locked up again, and headed back inside, squaring his shoulders as he pushed open the door. (He had to admit, the Cheerios uniform, in addition to giving a little bit of camouflage and a veneer of popularity in the hallways and still being enough like a costume to appeal to his dramatic side, also did nice things for his shoulders –- and his butt - and oddly, made him feel... taller.)

* * *

Rachel watched Kurt go, wondering just how it was that that stupid cheerleader's uniform managed to make him look even smaller than almost anything else he wore (not that she was jealous, but he really had a _teeny_ waist). Not as bad, she had to concede, as the football uniform had. _That_ had made him look like a little kid trying on his big brother's clothes. Not that she'd been all that interested, or that she'd paid any special attention to the local sports report of the game that particular weekend (the sports report that she certainly did not watch _every_ week just for the two or three seconds that Finn might have been onscreen as quarterback, during most of which he mostly was getting tackled horribly).

And if she _had_ watched the clips of the dramatic game-winning kick, (complete with dance number, _so very_ Kurt Hummel) it certainly would not have been with one bit of concern that those big bruisers on the other team might crush her fellow glee-mate. After all, he seemed to think his freakish soprano range had made him a potential rival for her from the start. She had actually been worried when he'd challenged her for the right to solo Defying Gravity; with Artie, Tina, Mercedes and Finn firmly on his side, and the fact that Quinn, Santana, Brittany and Puck actively hated her, compared to the mere disdain and scorn they felt for Kurt…. But she'd been fairly certain that the F would be the clincher, and she knew _that_ was comfortably in her range.

Still, she had to admit that, like most of the Glee Club, he'd been more... sympathetic lately, not just to her, but to all of them. (Except for Noah, but she really couldn't blame him for that. She would probably have a lot of trouble finding sympathy for Puck if he'd been throwing her into a dumpster at least once a week since their first day of high school, too. It had been hard enough to forgive him for the many, _many_ slushie facials he'd "treated" her to over that same period of time, but those sad eyes when he'd been slushied himself... and those really, really toned arms... had won her over. Briefly).

And she'd begun to see through Kurt's often annoyingly smug, superior attitude enough to realize that it was mostly an act. The haughty expression he affected seemed to be a defense against the casual cruelty and outright threat he seemed to attract like a magnet, just by being himself. He was a lot like her, really; he clearly wanted the attention, wanted to stand out, but the only attention he often got from his classmates was, well, most emphatically not good. Even more not good than what she herself often dealt with. And like her, he didn't seem to know how to change that, even if he wanted to.

His recent attempt to be more, well, _butch_, had just made him seem... stilted, unnatural. Stagey. And his voice - dear Sondheim, what could have possessed him to sing like that? It had made her throat ache even more than her tonsillitis, just listening to it, knowing what he was actually capable of. Especially since he had just now pretty much admitted he'd blown that F on purpose... and she couldn't imagine why he would _even_ do that.

She did know, though, that he hadn't done it for her.

Ok, he wasn't a saint, none of them were, but he was beginning to seem like a decent kid, now that she had some insight into him. And maybe because she was also getting a little insight into herself.

Her therapist would be proud. She should share this with him.

She'd talked to Tina, and realized that the incident last week had been fairly typical of his life; he really did walk the corridors most of the time waiting for someone like Azimio to decide that his very existence somehow threatened them. It might have escalated a little more than was usual because of the Gaga getup, well, that and the fact that he'd actually said something to them for once (because they had also shoved Tina, too), instead of just making a smart remark under his breath. Tina had told her that she thought he had deliberately managed to trip and fall on Karovsky, which had bought her time to run away from the pair, because he'd told her later he'd known he was never going to outrun them in those absurdly high heels without breaking an ankle). Rachel'd been scared later, when the glee club had found the two goons cornering Kurt, and she'd been with the whole glee gang. (Puck and Santana were often _very_ scary. Which, in this context, was reassuring).

She almost turned the car around. But her phone buzzed to remind her that her appointment with her therapist was in half an hour, so she kept going. The school had been deserted, and it wasn't like Kurt'd want to have someone hovering all the time, like he couldn't be let out alone. He wasn't a child, after all, even if he looked ridiculously young.

Still, she made a mental note to text Finn later. Kurt didn't even need to know she'd been checking up on him.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Though I love it, Glee is not mine. Thank you, Mr. Murphy, et al. I'll put them back when I'm done.

I know I said this would update on Sunday, but I'm going to be out, so I decided to go ahead and do it tonight.

* * *

Kurt

Usually the school was really quiet - spooky quiet - when most of the kids were gone.

Today that was not the case.

He could hear Coach Sylvester and Mr. Schuester shouting even before he reached the corner, so he stopped to peer cautiously around it first. (Kurt just wasn't really used to grown-ups shouting at each other so much. With just him and his dad in the house, it was usually pretty quiet, or had been until he'd found himself getting all teenager-shouty this last few months). He really just wanted to stay out of the way, but he needed his phone.

The two teachers were in the choir room, which made their volume pretty amazing, since it was mostly soundproofed so the rest of the school could hear themselves think during practices.

Just as he was thinking he would have to brave going in there, Principal Figgins rushed past him, heading for the ruckus. Reaching the open door of the music room, he bellowed, "Sue! Schue! My office, now!" Whatever else he said, Kurt didn't catch, because he was backing away as quietly as he could manage and ducking into an empty classroom until the three angry adults hurried past him and the coast was clear again. Once the loud voices had been cut off by the slamming of the Principal's door, he ventured out again.

He didn't see Azimio and Karofsky round the corner behind him, or the look they exchanged as Azimio slapped Karofsky's shoulder and gestured toward the figure jogging down the hall toward the choir room.

* * *

Figgins

"Sit!" Figgins had tried for an authoritative bark, but clearly his arguing staff wasn't impressed by it. He tried coaxing instead. "Sit down, Sue, Schue, and let's talk this over - like the _professionals_ we are all supposed to be!" He dropped heavily into his own chair, resisting the urge to rub at his aching temples. Never show weakness, he told himself. Sylvester will go after you like a shark. But seriously, these two were really doing their part to raise his blood pressure.

Schuester made an exaggeratedly courtly gesture towards a chair. "Please, Sue, I'd love for Principal Figgins to hear your explanation for giving away the entire Glee Club's costumes for the big number we're performing _next week_ at the charity concert!" He took an empty chair when Sue remained standing – looming— out of what Figgins was certain was sheer contrariness.

"I just had the best interests of that very charity in mind, William!" she asserted. "Those homeless people don't need to listen to your little group of musical miscreants caterwauling; they need new rags to replace their old rags with. I was just trying to teach those kids the concept of 'giving till it hurts!' My next suggestion would be that you could donate a week's supply of the spackle you use in your hair to help build a house for Habitat for Humanity."

Figgins sighed. It was going to be a long evening.

* * *

Azimio and Karofsky

The two jocks followed their favorite target, hanging back a little because they were fairly certain he was heading straight to his natural habitat, the choir room. They had another nickname for it: "Homo Headquarters."

Azimio grinned at his friend, knowing they were both thinking the same thing - detention sucked, but this afternoon was suddenly looking better. Their weekend was starting off perfectly: a light work over workout, then pizza and Xbox. They had just enough time to kill, so to speak, before they were supposed to meet some of the guys at the mall. Just enough time to throw a good scare into Hummel, anyway, and remind him that they were not intimidated by the FreakHive.

As Hummel neared the door, he paused, giving them just enough time to duck into a classroom before he glanced back over his shoulder at the now-empty length of corridor behind him, then continued into the music classroom. Grinning at each other, the pair followed, taking up positions at two of the three doors, waiting for their prey to start back out. The surprise ought to be enough to wipe that infuriating, superior expression off his face, for a second, anyway.

* * *

Kurt

Kurt hated the feeling he sometimes got between his shoulder blades, an uncomfortable tightness that usually meant someone was targeting him for some sort of "light-hearted" shenanigans, like slamming him into a locker or giving him a slushie shower. It made him pause, glancing back down the corridor, as he neared the choir room door. But the hallway was empty, Friday-afternoon-empty, so he gave himself a little mental shake and kept going._ Now I'm imagining things_, he thought with a wry smile. Not entirely surprising, since there were at least a couple of guys he could think of who seemed to be out to get him.

His jacket was hanging over the back of the back-row chair he had been sitting in earlier, just as he'd thought. He bounded up the risers to collect it, taking a moment to caress the fabric appreciatively before dipping one hand into the pocket for his phone. Coming back down the risers more slowly, he sent his dad a text:_ on my way home, what time is dinner?_

After a moment, he got a text back:_ dinner plans off, C working late, work backed up. I 'll odre pizza in time for TV?_

He chuckled to himself - his dad was really bad at texting, still, with the tiny keys - and sent back: _ok, veg pizza pls._ He'd probably regret it later, it would likely wreak havoc with his skin, but sometimes you just had to go with it. He'd fix a salad later, maybe. _U need help?  
_

_Got 2 mechs here, if you nee dto do something, _Burt's answer came back._  
_

Kurt looked up at the clock and decided that there was just time for a visit to his favorite salon before dinner. They usually could find time for him, and his bangs were getting a little too long for the style he preferred. He typed a text to his dad: _Stopping salon, need a trim, will b l8r, then.  
_

He glanced up from his father's reply _- k, drive safe, dont spend all your money onb hair goop_, _nxt alloowance not for a week_ - just in time to avoid actually running into the large figure of Azimio, blocking the doorway. A quick glance toward the door on the far side of the room made his heart drop into his impeccably white cheer sneakers. Karofsky sneered at him from that end of the room, moving in and kicking his door shut.

"Um. Hi... guys," he stammered, aware that that was not up to his usual standards for witty repartee, as he backed up a couple of steps hastily.

"Look what we got here," Azimio grinned at his friend. "It's the Queen of the Freaks."

Karofsky nodded, with a light in his eyes that Kurt really didn't like. "And no bodyguard today."

The two jocks stalked forward slowly, following him into the room, as he fought to regain his usual aplomb. When Azimio swung the door shut behind him, Kurt felt the blood drain from his face, but he drew himself up to his full height and raised his chin, meeting their eyes defiantly. This, he realized, might just be very bad. _Where was Mr. Schue?_ His briefcase was still here beside the piano, and he had _just_ gone down the corridor. Kurt really hoped that this particular fight between Schue and Coach Sylvester was a short one, he could really use a hand here. For that matter, he'd even take Coach Sylvester...

* * *

Author's note: I could use a little input here. What ring tones do you all think Kurt would pick for the members of gee club? for his dad? Thanks!


	3. Chapter 3

(Disclaimer: If Glee were mine, Kurt would be having cookies in my kitchen. (Heck, they all would.) So I'm just borrowing them, for my entertainment and, I hope, yours.)

Schuester

Schue left the Principal's office fuming, heading straight for the parking lot. He had, at least, found out which shelter Sue Sylvester had "donated" their costumes to - in Columbus- but he needed to go collect them _now_, before they were really given away. That woman was going to give him a stroke one of these days, he thought as he backed his car out in the darkening teachers' parking lot. She was also far too ready to take advantage of an opportunity for making mayhem: the Glee Club had been in the auditorium working on their dance number for less than an hour. At least none of the kids had noticed the closet doors hanging open at the back of the room, empty except for the dust bunnies. They'd just grabbed their things and headed out, chattering excitedly, making plans for their weekend.

As he drove through the lot, he noticed a familiar-looking SUV parked in the student section. Nice car, he thought, listening to his own muffler drag behind him. He wondered if Hummel's Tire and Service did exhaust systems. Maybe this weekend he'd finally get it looked at.

* * *

Kurt

"We have to stop meeting like this, guys," Kurt said lightly, moving away from the piano. (Trapped against the piano would just be _so_ cliche, and besides, it was the _piano_, he didn't want to see it damaged. And if he could get them far enough into the room, he might be able to get around them, if he was quick enough, and get out.) "People will talk."

He had about a second to realize that that last bit might have been too much, before Azimio put his head down, charged at him (-the hell? like an enraged _rhino_ -) and actually tackled him, taking him off his feet completely and sending both of them into the risers, knocking the breath from Kurt's lungs as his shoulder slammed into the smaller boy's chest. Chairs flew, and Kurt's phone, keys, and jacket all scattered across the floor as he crashed into the bottom tier, feeling a hard line of impact across his shoulders and the back of his head hitting the floor. (There were stars...)

As Azimio scrambled to his feet, Karofsky closed the distance and grabbed Kurt by the collar of his shirt, hauling him upright. A little dazed, and a lot frightened, Kurt found his feet and tried to wrench free of the hockey player's grip. He heard the fabric rip (Coach is gonna _kill_ me, he thought a little hysterically) as he tried to twist away from the jocks.

But Azimio was right there, and caught him by one wrist, yanking him off balance again and then torquing his arm up behind his back sharply enough that Kurt was sure he meant to break it, and _that_ drew a scream from him as he rose to his toes involuntarily in a vain attempt to ease the pain. Azimio's other arm looped out to pin his, and Kurt found himself helplessly face-to-face with Karofsky.

He managed, somehow, to turn his head in time to avoid taking the punch straight in the nose. It landed on his cheekbone instead, and his vision blurred as his legs went watery beneath him. He was dimly aware of several body blows that left him breathless and limp in Azimio's grip and Azimio's voice in his ear, a steady stream of crude epithets, and the burning agony of his shoulder and wrist (...grinding of bone on bone, that _couldn't_ be good, he needed that hand, he had an essay test in History next week...) as only Azimio's hold kept him upright. He struggled to catch his breath as Karofsky stepped back to study his handiwork.

Karofsky grabbed a handful of Kurt's hair, pulled his head up and glared into his eyes. "So, had enough yet? Still wanna be a freakshow?"

Kurt met his gaze with as much dignity as he could muster, even though he could feel the damn tears burning in his eyes and it was really hard to focus. "I told you already. I'm fine with who I am. You'll never make me change." He swallowed hard, his throat tight, making his voice sound too high and breathy. "I can't stop you. But you won't stop me."

Karofsky gave him a long hard stare, one hand clutching at Kurt's hair, his other fist raised, ready. He looked... puzzled. Almost disbelieving. Then he shook his head, and swung into Kurt's ribs, knocking the wind out of him again.

And simultaneously, there was a burst of loud rap music, and Azimio _dropped_ Kurt, letting him fall into a heap at their feet while the pair conferred with someone on Azimio's cell phone. Kurt couldn't focus past the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears as he tried to recover his wits, catch his breath, and figure out how to move. Maybe he could get out of here while they were distracted.

He looked up, trying to gauge _how_ distracted they were, and caught their exchanged glances, their satisfied expressions causing his heart to lurch in terror. Anything that made them look so _pleased_ with themselves had to be bad news... He followed their gazes to-

The costume closet. Usually closed and locked, today it stood gaping open (_empty? _why was it _empty__?_), and he realized with a shock what they had in mind. "Oh, _hell_, no!" he gasped, pushing himself to his feet in a surge of adrenaline-fueled panic. He got about four steps toward the door before Karofsky caught the back of his shirt and sent him reeling into the wall, and the pair moved in to grab him.

He fought them every step of the way, kicking (catching Azimio in the knee, and Karofsky in the chest because he really can kick _high_), and, yes, screaming at the top of his lungs and considerable vocal range. But in the end, they were an unstoppable force, and he was an all-too-movable object. All they really had to do was lift him off his feet.

They shoved him into the open closet; he hit the back wall and surged forward, almost getting out before they slammed the door, pure panic driving him to throw himself at the door again. It bounced open a little but Azimio threw his weight against it, and Kurt heard him curse. "-stronger than he looks! -get something to hold the door shut!"

Even through the wooden door, Kurt could hear fabric tear, and knew they'd savaged his jacket as well. He pounded on the doors frantically. "No, don't! Let me out!"

The doors rattled as they threaded the torn fabric through the handles and tied it tight. Kurt pounded his palms against the doors again. "Come on, open the door, Karofsky! Azimio! Let me out!" He could hear them laughing, and hated that his voice was breaking, that he could hear, himself, how terrified he sounded. "Very clever, gay kid in the closet, joke's over, _now open the door_!"

Azimio's mocking laughter was muffled through the door. "Sorry, princess, we got plans. Our ride's here."

"No, really, let me out!" Their only response was laughter, and it sounded like they were moving away. "You _jerks_! Come back here!" Silence.

Kurt would have to admit later that he completely lost it, pounding one-handed (his right arm just didn't want to _work)_ and kicking on the door, shouting_ (- __pleading, demanding, begging -)_ until he was hoarse and exhausted. He slid slowly down to sit with his back propped against the door, knees drawn up tight against his chest, shaking and trying to fight back tears.___Mr. Schuester will be back, _he kept telling himself_____. __He'll be back any minute. I'm **not** gonna be stuck in this closet all weekend**.**_


	4. Chapter 4

_5:00  
_Artie and Tina

"I'm just not getting this," Tina groaned, pushing her history book away and resting her chin on her folded arms. They liked to get some of their homework done together on Friday nights at Artie's (both over-achievers). It often turned into takeout and a rented movie in Artie's dad's den by six thirty, before Mr. Abrams drove Tina home, or her mom picked her up. If they didn't end up going to the mall or the pizza place or Breadstix with some of the other glee kids. Tonight, though, it was just them.

Artie sighed and patted her arm. "It's ok; we can work on it tomorrow. We need a library day, anyway, that history test is gonna be killer."

Tina nodded. "We should see if anyone else wants to meet up there in the afternoon. I'll send them a text, while you order the pizza?" When he nodded, she leaned over and kissed him before digging her phone out of her bag and beginning to type. "Mercedes is in our history class...," she murmured to herself, selecting a name, "and Kurt, and Mike Chang... there."

Artie had rolled down the hall to see if his parents wanted in on the pizza order. When his mother volunteered to call it in, he headed back, pausing for a moment in the door to watch Tina for a moment, feeling that familiar sensation of disbelief wash over him. She really was beautiful, and she wanted to be with him! And from the look she gave him when she looked up from her phone, she was just as pleased and surprised as he was. He rolled forward. "Any answers yet?"

"Not yet. I was just looking at this." She offered him the phone, and he saw that she had been watching a video she'd apparently recorded sometime during the rehearsals for the Lady Gaga number the girls (and Kurt) had performed last week.

The video had been shot in Kurt's basement, a series of clips as each of the girls (except for Rachel, who had missed the fun) came out from behind a curtain Kurt had hung across the back of the room. They were showing each other their costumes for the first time, and each was more outrageous than the last.

There was a lot of giggling and teasing, and Kurt flitting around tweaking costumes - and getting his hands slapped when he tried to adjust the angle of the bow on Santana's head- and then Kurt himself had gathered up a huge bag overflowing with sparkly silver fabric and vanished behind the curtain.

When he'd finally emerged, in his silver _spacesuit,_ and French Revolution wig, tottering on those ridiculously high, glittery, silver heels, all the girls had shrieked with laughter. Kurt had just looked down his nose at them in his haughtiest manner and seated himself regally in the chair at his vanity, before laughing into the camera and admitting that he wasn't sure he could even stand up again, let alone dance in the things. And he refused to tell them where the boots had come from, only admitting that he'd beadazzled them himself when Quinn pointed out the Beadazzler sticking out from under his bed.

"I am constantly astonished at what that boy is willing to wear," Artie chuckled, shaking his head. "Wearing that thing to school took guts." Tina took back her phone, grinning. "You were all pretty brave," he told her, growing more serious. "Especially after those two gorillas shoved you and Kurt."

Tina frowned. "Yeah, the first time was a surprise, but they really scared me the second time."

"Second time?"

"Yeah, they cornered me and Kurt again later." When he cursed softly, she reached over to take his hand, looking a little guilty. "I didn't tell you because they never got a chance to do anything. Kurt sort of... fell... on them, and I... ran away. But Coach Sylvester was coming down the corridor and when they saw her, they took off. Even they know better than to mess with a Cheerio in front of her. The worst that happened was that they knocked a few of the rhinestones loose from Kurt's shoes."

Artie looked over at her. "I'm sorry that that happened to you," he said, finally. "I... It sometimes really bugs me that I can't really do the protective boyfriend bit." And that _Kurt_, of all people had to do it - a thought that also made him feel guilty for even thinking it. Kurt was a good friend, and while he wasn't a_ typical_ guy, he _was_ a guy...

"You weren't even there, so you _couldn't_ have done anything. Even if you were as huge and apelike as Karofsky."

"Or standing up."

"Don't do that, Artie," Tina whispered, slipping off her chair to settle into his lap. She kissed him, determined not to let him get so down on himself for something he couldn't help. "They're the problem, not you," she told him. "And you're the guy I want to be with."

"Yeah?"

And she spent rest of the time until the pizza was delivered convincing him.

* * *

Mercedes and Quinn

Mercedes wasn't entirely sure why she had offered Quinn a lift home, except that it was clear that she and Puck were fighting again. It had looked like Quinn really didn't even want to get into his truck, and once she was in Mercedes' car Quinn had confessed that she really didn't want to go back to Puck's place right now. Especially if that meant being alone with Puck's mother, since Puck was going out with some of the guys on the football team for the evening. So Mercedes had found herself bringing Quinn back to her place.

"Come on, we'll set an extra plate, and then we can watch a chick flick, it's a good excuse for a good cry," she told Quinn as she pulled into the driveway of her house instead, and felt terrible when Quinn's eyes filled with tears. "Hey, girl, I'm sorry, you ok?" Mercedes turned off the engine and reached hesitantly over to squeeze the other girl's arm gently.

Quinn sniffled once and tried to pull herself together. Only a few weeks ago, Mercedes had been one of the kids whose torment she had enjoyed from a distance, laughing when purple slushie had sent her shrieking to the girls' room with her faithful bestie (and his bag full of lotions and potions) in tow. Now...

Now Quinn had learned that she would have traded all the so-called friends who had abandoned her once the news of her pregnancy had broken for one friendship like the one Mercedes and Kurt shared. Or the sweet, shy romance that had blossomed between Artie and Tina.

She had known from the moment she'd seen that little plus sign on the pregnancy test that her friends would abandon her; she'd feared her parents' reaction and had been unsurprised (though bitterly disappointed); what she had not expected was that she would find the support she needed from the Glee club, from the kids everyone popular picked on or ignored.

Sometimes she really felt she didn't deserve it. But here she was, sitting in Mercedes' car, and the other girl was looking at her with so much compassion (and _everything_ made her cry lately, anyway). The idea of dinner without the random lectures on all the things that could go wrong with her pregnancy, or other weirdness that was the Puckerman household nearly broke her completely.

Mercedes' phone buzzed, breaking the moment. She offered Quinn an apologetic smile as she glanced down to read the text message and laughed. "They are too much. Artie and Tina are doing _homework, _and they want to know if we want to meet them at the library tomorrow before we go to Kurt's. He and I are in their History class," she explained, "And we have a test. But I know Kurt is gonna want to work with his dad in the morning. My boy has expensive tastes."

Quinn smiled at her. "Yeah, Santana and I used to spend lunch sometimes adding up what his outfit for the day must have cost him..." She didn't add that they were estimating how expensive the morning's dumpster toss must have been and speculating on where he got his money from.

Mercedes shook her head as she texted Tina. "I guess I really should go, I need the extra study time. Want me to pick you up before or after?"

Quinn tilted her head, pretending to consider it. The option to be somewhere other than in Puck's room, listening to his mom yell at him to _wake up, get up, do something with his life_ for an hour before he would actually bestir himself from the air mattress on the floor... She was always a little afraid to go downstairs without him to face his mother's latest strange bit of pregnancy folklore alone, as well (raising my hands over my head can choke the baby? _Really_?) Getting out of that house for a Saturday, even if it meant hanging out at the library all morning, sounded heavenly. "What time can you be there?"

She knew she hadn't managed to quite keep the note of desperation out of her voice when Mercedes gave her a sidelong look - not pity, exactly, but something softer and more understanding.

"Yeah, how's breakfast sound, eightish? My treat. We might even get Kurt to come before he starts work," she offered. Quinn's smile was grateful as she nodded. "All right, let's go in. Dinner's at six. And then.. we can just talk, if you want. You don't have to go back to the Puckerman's right away, right?"

Quinn had to close her eyes tight to keep back the tears as she reached for the door handle.

* * *

A/N:

(wow, that was meant to be Mercedes' section, but Quinn just took over on me.)

* * *

Short chapter, I know. I'm working on too many things at once. And trying to make some decisions about where the narrative is actually going.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note:** A short chapter, I know, but for those of you who are wondering how Kurt is doing...

And I'm frustrated, because the title really is: Break your heart (to save your life) - and I can't make that happen in the title field.

* * *

_time?_

Kurt

By the time the adrenaline had ebbed, and he had gotten the shaking that came in its wake under control, it was clear that the jocks were not coming back to let him out. Unsurprising, really. He wasn't entirely sure how long it had been, but Mr. Schuester hadn't come back yet either.

He needed to figure out what to do next.

First thing he needed to do, he thought, was to take stock. With the masking effects of adrenaline gone, he was feeling more than a little bit battered. He could feel a line of bruises across his rib cage, and his chest ached where he'd been tackled, but he was breathing ok, so he figured nothing was broken. His shoulder was still aching and stiff from Azimio's arm lock, but he could move it now, at least a little - it felt like pulled muscles more than anything else. His wrist felt mashed, but his hand and fingers seemed to work, even if it hurt.

He raised his other hand tentatively to his throbbing cheek, unsurprised to find it swollen and tender. Probably turning a shade of purple that clashed with the red of his (torn, ruined) Cheerios uniform, he thought dryly. His dad would call it "a hell of a shiner."

Still, he'd been pretty lucky, all things considered. In some ways, he'd been _really_ lucky that it had taken them so long to work themselves up to actually beating him up.

As far back as he could remember, even before they (or he) had had the words for what he was, for how he was different, they had somehow sensed it, and there had been an unspoken agreement among his classmates to avoid contact, as if for fear of _catching_ whatever it was that made Kurt Hummel so different. From the first time another first grade boy had refused to take his hand to partner up for a walk to the library or play some stupid game he couldn't even remember, it had seemed to spread like the very contagion they feared - Kurt Hummel became an untouchable.

To brush against him in the hall in middle school was to be treated like a pariah as well for the rest of the day.

And in middle school, they had learned the words, the names. When that had started, he'd actually preferred the days they ignored him.

Freshman year, it seemed, the dynamic had shifted a little. It had become acceptable to touch him- if, for example, "touching" meant shoving him into a wall of lockers, "rough-housing" in gym, or tossing him into a dumpster. As long as the pecking order was clear, he supposed. As long as _he_ didn't touch any of _them_. Or stand up to them too much. Or too loudly.

Even that last confrontation, in the hall - the Gaga Incident, as he wryly called it - had been all about posturing, like a pair of gorillas banging on their chests. There had been other kids in the halls to impress. They'd seemed to need to reinforce their dominance, which they obviously felt had been threatened by his (and Tina's) appearance.

_This_... this meant the rules had changed, again.

This time, they had not been content with trying to scare him or get a reaction from him. This time, they had wanted to _hurt_ him.

(Well, they _had_ meant to before, with the shoving and the tripping and the tossing into the dumpsters, but it hadn't been the same. This was... _direct_. Determined. The only "lucky" thing, really, was that they'd stopped before any serious damage had been done. This time.)

That scared him. It left him without any idea how to react to them. For such a long time, his defenses had depended on his wit and his mocking, wintry smile, his carefully honed and practiced ability to keep his expression either impassive or slightly derisive. The art of looking down his nose at people who towered over him. (How he wished for a growth spurt of about a foot sometimes...)

It was one of the reasons for the oft-mocked skin-care regime - his face, his _mask_, was a big part of the armor he donned every morning. It was the ritual he used to build a wall between himself and the rest of the world. It made it easier to keep up the air of indifferent superiority he turned to the indignities he suffered - pretending he wasn't suffering at all.

Because every time he gave them tears, or showed fear, they won, and he lost a little bit of himself.

He knew he'd be all right; in just two more years, he'd graduate and leave Lima for New York, or LA, or ... somewhere, anywhere but here. And he'd never see them again. (They would see _him_, though, on the red carpet, his name on the marquis, wearing some gorgeous outfit, with an equally gorgeous man on his arm - the next Barrowman...or the next John Bartlett, designing for the stars.)

The ice-prince routine had worked, as long as they weren't really out to do any real, physical harm. Now...The cutting wit he'd developed over the years to intimidate the less verbally gifted and to turn the name-calling and slurs to his advantage would be no help against fists, and there was no way he could fight them on their own terms. He didn't even know how.

He carefully rested his head on his folded arms again with a sigh. Suddenly he felt very small, and cold, and alone.

* * *

**Author's note, again:**

Better? ;-p

I know it's been slow to build, and there's a lot more to come. Also, I am a little bit of a perfectionist when it comes to writing. I tweak and tweak! I hope it's paying off for all of you.

Also, I may be stuck. I have stuff for later chapters, but I don't have the NEXT one yet.


	6. Chapter 6

_Kurt's Phone:_

_Tina C (5:07): Library 2morrow morning? History?_

_Dad (5:33): Still barber? C will pickup finn 9_.

_Mercedes (5:42): IHOP before work? 8ish, w/ me, Q, T n Artie?  
_

6:00

Finn and Rachel:texts

_Rachel: hey  
Finn: hey! 'sup?  
Rachel: Did Il Divo get home yet?  
Finn: Il Divo? confused  
Rachel: Kurt  
Finn:?  
Rachel: Divo. Male form of Diva  
Finn: oh  
Rachel: Can I call?  
Finn: gimme 5 n I'll go on break_

Finn knew he was in for a lecture when the phone rang, and Rachel started right in. She huffed an exasperated sigh at him as soon as he picked up. "He isn't a diva, Finn._ Divas_ are women."

Fin's brow furrowed as he put a handful of change into the soda machine in the break room at the grocery store. He'd been working as a bagger and stock clerk for several weeks, trying to save some money to buy a car. "He always says he's an 'honorary girl' _himself_, Rachel," he grumbled, collecting his Mountain Dew and dropping into a chair.

Rachel's voice took on her "I'm an expert on this" tone, one that Finn usually tuned out pretty much automatically whenever she used it. Today, though, he figured he'd better pay some attention, partly because he was trying to get Rachel to realize that he really did want to win her back.

And also a little bit because he'd really screwed up with Kurt last week, and he figured maybe, with her two gay dads, she really _was_ the expert, and might be able to help him figure out how to smooth things over with the other boy. After all, as awkward as things were, he really had been getting to know Kurt a little better as a person. He wanted them to be friends, if they could get past the awkward flirting/hurt feelings/weirdness they had been going through, and if Rachel could help him figure out how...

He must have drifted again, because he could hear her tone become exasperated. "Finn? Are you even listening to me?"

"Sorry, Rachel." Dragging his attention back to the phone, he asked, "Can you explain that again?"

Her eye-roll was practically audible. "Sexuality isn't binary, Finn." ("Whaa?" he thought as she continued, clearly on a roll.) She went on in a rush of words that left him wondering when she took a breath. "But you guys, you _jocks_, all act like he _can't_ be a boy, according to your overly macho template. Since he clearly wants to belong somewhere, so he must be a girl, sort of. The girls are slightly more accepting of him, at least some of us, so he's willing to fit in there. But I'd bet he'd like to be treated like one of the guys sometimes, or at least have you remember he is one. Not in the rough-housing and dirty jokes kind of way, because he's kind of a prude that way, and not in the 'ewww, the gay guy is talking to me, people will think I'm gay too' way, either. You guys only seem to think of him as a boy when you worry about him being 'a guy who might be hitting on me.' It's gotta be annoying."

Finn sighed. "I guess," he said. "It's just... it's tough when the other guys start in, you know? Just because I'm kinda starting to be friends with him?"

"I know," she said. "So, back the question I called about: do you know if he got home all right?"

"Um, sure, I guess, why wouldn't he have?" Finn asked, glancing at the clock.

"He went back in for his jacket," she explained. "I was just a bit worried. I'm sometimes a little psychic," she confided.

"Oh, well, I'm sure he's fine, but I'll call him, if you like," Finn offered.

"That might be good. I mean, it's not like he would even want us keeping tabs on him all the time, but... Those thugs were really ready to hit him last time. If you hadn't shown up - they're building toward really hurting someone, it's classic bully progression- " He could actually hear Rachel shudder

"Yeah, all right, I'll call him and make sure he's ok. When he yells at me for treating him like a little kid, I'll tell him you told me to." Finn looked at the clock. "I gotta get back to work, though. I'll text you when I have a minute, ok?"

"Ok, bye, Finn."

Finn headed back out to the sales floor, back to the pallet of dog food he'd been stacking on the shelves before he went on his break, lost in thought. He and Kurt were doing a little better as the week progressed, but all the way along their friendship had been, well, difficult. At first, Finn had thought it should be easy. Kid didn't have many friends, just Mercedes.

But Kurt was really kinda prickly. Finn figured he could understand that, sort of. Kurt had all these things he did to keep people away, and it had taken Finn a while to figure out that they were (what was the word...?)protective, like the spiny things some animals has to keep them from being eaten, like they'd studied in science class in middle school.

Kurt had gotten kind of... intimidating. Finn had seen him cut a guy down with a phrase that took ten minutes to figure out was a total burn.

And, Finn had to admit that the guys he had been hanging around with all along had made it hard to be friends with Kurt. They had hated him since they were all in grade school.

But in New Directions, Finn had had a chance to really see Kurt with his guard down. Well, not really "down" but less... up. He seemed like he really needed people to try to be friends even though he made it tough to be friends with him, and Finn had seen that need in the way Kurt watched him and Puck before the fight about Quinn, or Mike and Matt. He'd seen Kurt's joy when things were going well in rehearsals and people treated him like he belonged, instead of... avoiding him. Or acting like "gay" was something he could pass on to them by being friends.

And Finn had seen how happy he had been when it had seemed like the football team had accepted him... the whole ten minutes of celebration after their win. When he'd really had all those prickly defenses shut off for once, no one had looked as happy as Kurt had.

Finn sighed, rolling the empty cart back to the stockroom. That hadn't lasted very long. Even last year, when Azimio and Karofsky had been kind of Finn's friends, he wouldn't have thought they'd really hit Kurt, but it really had looked like they might the other day. He'd better check on Kurt like Rachel had suggested. He'd promised, after all, that he'd look out for him. And he'd meant it.

_Kurt's phone:_

_Finn (6:35): Dude u home yet? ur dad says u went 4 a haircut, call me when ur done, ok?_

_Mercedes and Tina: _texts

_Mercedes (6:42): (: T, you heard back from Kurt yet?  
Tina (6:42): Nope, u?  
Mercedes (6:43): no, texted him over an hour ago.  
Tina (6:45): he's prolly helping his dad _

A/N  
I wrote this over this weekend... I suddenly found that I had finished all the stuff I had pre-written last week. And I had wanted to do something with Puck and worked on it all week, but he's not really cooperating, so you got Finn earlier than I planned.

A little bit longer this time. I have a time line in mind, just trying to make sure it all fits. Hope you enjoyed! Let me know if I kept this in character... I'm not so sure with Finn. Always open to constructive criticism!


	7. Chapter 7

Texting round robin:

_Artie KHummel(6:32): did u get Tina's txt? call pls, we need 2 plan_

_Mercedes Kurt(7:03): What's ur wrk schd. 2mrrow? U up 4 brkfst?_

_Mercedes Kurt (7:16): Call me aftr dinnr 2 mke plns._  
_  
Kurt's phone: Missed call (7:17): Obnoxious Diva_

* * *

7:00

Schue

Slinging the last bag of costumes into the back seat of his car, Will slammed the door and leaned against his car for a moment, one hand massaging his aching temples. Sue was diabolical, he had to give her that. He supposed he'd been lucky she'd _only_ sent them to _Columbus_.

The traffic into the city had been horrible, a drive of an hour and a half slowly stretching into two and change by the time he'd located the shelter itself. He'd had to track down the guy in charge of the shelter, explain what he wanted, and persuade him to return the "donated" clothing. The guy had lectured him for twenty minutes. He'd finally ended up writing the shelter a check for a hundred dollars to get him to stop talking and unlock the damned bin, and then it had taken forever to even find the right bags. He'd just been fortunate to catch the supervisor just before he was due to go home.

Will was tired, and hungry, and jittery from too much coffee and junk food already this week, and from just pure aggravation. He should go home, he told himself, make himself an omelet, and go to bed. Tomorrow was Saturday; he could go in to the school when he got up in the morning and put the costumes back.

He slid into the driver's seat, started the car up (he really needed to get that muffler looked at, it was really getting loud), and shifted into gear. The dashboard clock read 7:-3. (Something else he needed to get fixed…).

Home was over an hour and a half away. He really didn't want to wait until he got home for dinner, and he certainly wouldn't feel like cooking for just himself. There was a Steak and Shake sign taunting him, visible from the shelter's lot - a little more fast food wouldn't kill him. He'd just take a couple of extra laps on the track in the morning after he'd dropped off the costumes.

He realized after he'd eaten (burger, fries and salad for his conscience), and was well on the road for home, that he'd left his briefcase in the choir room as well. It was going to be late when he got home, but he could still get in a little bit of grading while he watched the news and the late show. He needed to get some of it done if he didn't want to spend the whole weekend reading bad high school Spanish short-answer quizzes. And the school was a little bit closer than home, actually. If he stopped tonight, he could avoid a trip back to the school at all on Saturday.

The choir room felt more like home than the apartment did these days, anyway, if he was honest with himself. If he stopped at the school and unloaded the costumes, he could put off that moment when he walked into his empty place for another hour.

He'd make up his mind, he figured, when he reached the town limits. The school was one exit before home, easy enough to decide then. He glanced at the clock again. 7:-3. He sighed, and thumped on the dashboard, knowing it wouldn't help, and turned the radio up.

* * *

?:?  
Kurt

He was beginning to understand the term "stir crazy." For one thing, just sitting here alone, trapped in a small space with no idea how much time was passing, was giving him way too much time to think. And between the moments when he really just wanted to throw himself against the door, screaming, until the door broke or he did (which he was _not_ going to do, because it was a complete waste of his energy and would only end in more bruising and a complete loss of what remained of his pride) he was really, well, bored. He had entertained himself for a while by stringing together the most elaborate and creative curses he could construct in English and the Spanish swear words he'd learned from Santana hissing them at everyone during Cheerios practices.

He had spent a long time trying to figure out how to get himself out of the cupboard (he refused to even _think_ the word closet any more) actually. He'd searched the dusty floor for anything that might help, but had only come up with a broken pencil, a couple of buttons, lots of (ewwww) dried lumps of gum, and a wire hanger.

He could get the door open a crack, enough to let in a little bit of light, but it was magnetized, and unless he was leaning on it, it would shut again and leave him in total darkness. At least opening the door a little made him feel like he wasn't going to suffocate, so he'd stuck the wire hanger through the crack to keep the door open. He'd also found a stray bobby pin on the floor, but picking the lock wasn't going to help, since the handles of the doors were tied shut. (_With part of his own jacket_. That was just _so wrong_.

The music, coming after what felt like hours of silence - must have been hours, he had no idea really how long it had been, could it be Saturday already? – startled him and he scramble to his feet before he even realized it, pressing against the door. His phone sounded like it was just outside the door, loud in the silence of the choir room. He strained to make out the tune: What is this feeling, from Wicked? Who had he used that one for? _(__Loathing / Unadulterated loathing/ For your face/ Your voice/ Your clothing-)_

He actually felt himself blush, remembering. Rachel. When the glee club had been just the five of them, Rachel had made them exchange numbers, and he'd picked that ringtone for her out of, well, loathing. He'd meant to change it, especially after the makeover and how guilty he'd felt then. He didn't remember her ever calling him before, and he'd forgotten.

So why was she calling him now?

But the phone might as well be on the moon, he thought despondently, sliding back down to sit with his back against the door and drawing one knee up. The last time he'd felt this frustrated had been when his dad had told him he could absolutely NOT camp out at the mall for the 4 am Black Friday sales. Even if Mercedes was going, too. Thanksgiving dinner was not an optional family meal, and Aunt Mildred would certainly notice that he wasn't there.

As for the last time he'd been this scared-

He was so hungry, and thirsty, and he really,_ really_ needed to pee.

* * *

Texts:

_Finn M. Jones(7:32): U hrd frm Kurt?_

_ Finn (7:35): N, u?_

_Kurt's Phone:_

_Missed call (7:50:) Mercedes Jones_

_Missed call (7:58): Dad_

_Missed call (8:00): Artie A. _


	8. Chapter 8

8:00

Puck strolled into little pizza place in the aftermath of the dinner rush. He'd killed some time at home after dropping Matt off at his mother's place down the block- his dad lived nearer Mike, but this was his week with his mom- playing Guitar Hero with his sister until Puck's mom had come home from work to pick up his sister for a trip to the mall.

Almost as soon as they were out the door, Puck was too, gunning the truck's engine as he backed out of the driveway and tore off down the street.

If Quinn had come home with him, he'd have taken off right away, even though he really didn't have "plans with the guys." He just didn't want to hang around and feel guilty while she ignored him.

He didn't hang with Finn any more, and the rest of the guys from football didn't want the guys who had joined glee club around very much. And he really didn't want to deal with their attitudes about it, anyway.

He'd driven aimlessly for a while, then found himself heading for the little hole-in-the-wall pizza place that was a favorite hangout for the jocks on weekend nights. He spotted Mike's car in the lot as he drove past, so he decided to head on in. It was a good bet that Matt would be with him, at least, and they were good company. Too quiet, and sometimes it seemed like they could talk to each other with their minds, but still, they were cool.

At the door, he paused to let his eyes adjust to the dim interior and to scan the crowd for familiar faces. He didn't think Finn would be here tonight - he'd be working until 9, anyway - and that was probably for the best. They still were not talking much, even though it had been weeks since the big blowout.

He spotted Mike and Matt on the far side of the room, and Mike waved a greeting. Raising a hand in greeting, he started to weave though the tables the guys' booth.

"Where's Q?" Mike asked as Puck slid into the booth.

"How should I know?" Puck growled belligerently, then relented. "Told her I wanted a night out with the boys. She's hanging out with Beyonce, anyway," he admitted grudgingly. He dug into his wallet, looking for his fake id, and flagged down a harried-looking waitress.

She took one look at it and rolled her eyes. "The only beer you're getting here is root beer," she told him. "What do you guys want?"

"Whatever," Puck grumbled as she stalked off towards the kitchen with their pizza order. "What are you guys up to, on a Friday night?" he asked, scanning the crowd again.

"Arguing," Matt told him with a laugh. "We're back to comic books. Best billionaire/gizmo-based superhero: Iron Man or Batman?"

They all inhaled pizza when it arrived, and Puck half-listened to the two of them bicker amiably all through the meal, his thoughts elsewhere.

Mike's phone chirped at him and he pulled it towards him to check the text. "Mercedes," he answered Matt's inquisitive eyebrow. "Speaking of." (_We were?_ Puck wondered. Must be that telepathy thing again.) "She wants to know if we're meeting up with her and Tina and Artie and Kurt to prep for that history test tomorrow, and do we want to go to IHOP first? Well, she's asking me, but she says if you're with me I should ask you, too," he told Matt, who laughed and nodded. "I'm sure she won't mind if you come, too," he continued, looking over at Puck, who was still trying to wrap his brain around the number of words Mike had just spoken all at once. "Do you want to go? She's picking up Q anyway."

Puck scowled. "Too early in the morning," he said. "Plus, lame." Abrams and Hummel certainly had no reason to want to hang with him; Quinn was barely speaking to him, and neither was Santana. Mercedes had broken up with him. And he didn't hang out with those other losers outside of glee club, anyway. "Were we talking about Mercedes and I missed it?"

Matt ducked his head and Mike snickered. "Matt talks about Mercedes all the time. I'm just trying to convince him to talk _to_ Mercedes some day." Matt started to sputter a reply, but their attention was caught by the group of guys in McKinley jackets who were coming in now.

There were six or seven of them, headed for the big corner booth the busboy was wiping down now. Puck saw Karofsky glance over at the three of them, nudge Azimio's arm, and they exchanged an amused and annoyingly smug look and a high-five. One of the other guys nudged Azimio's arm, demanding, "Details, dudes!"

Shooting another look at the trio, Azimio slid into the booth and leaned in to talk in a low voice, drawing all of the other boys in close. Their voices were lost in the murmur of the dinner crowd, but several times the whole group erupted with loud laughter, and once in a while they glanced over at Puck and the other boys. Both of them had fallen silent again, though from their occasional glances, it was clear to Puck that they were communicating with each other. He agreed silently; the jocks were up to something. Something not good.

Azimio fished something out of his jacket pocket to put on the table. It was passed from hand to hand with much laughter and more high-fiving. A phrase or two of conversation reached their ears. " - -in' detention worth it-" "-shoulda seen his face-" _"heard_ him-" "wait'll Monday-." The rest was lost in the general babble if the restaurant.

When one of the jocks tossed it back to Karofsky, Puck got a better look at is just before the puck-head caught it. A look over at Matt's face confirmed that he and Mike had recognized the exact, designer shade as well- both of them wore the same building anger he could fell tightening over his own features.

It was just a scrap of cloth, a long strip of dark material that they were treating like a trophy. Puck rose to his feet almost before he really realized he intended to, and strode over to the table. He could feel Matt and Mike coming to stand at his shoulders as he stopped and glared down at Karofsky. "Gimme that," he said, his voice a threatening growl, and held out his hand.

Karofsky got to his feet with a sneer, "Or what?" But he handed over the fabric. Behind him, the table had gone quiet, except for nudges and snickers.

Puck stared down at the soft cloth in his hands, turning it over with a puzzled look. The rest of the restaurant had gone eerily quiet. "Keep it, man," Azimio said with a mocking grin. "We're done with it, anyway."


	9. Chapter 9

Author's note:

Warning for homophobic language and irritating characters in this chapter. Bad characters. Sometimes they wanna use bad words.

* * *

Puck handed the strip of Hummel's jacket to Mike and leaned down into Karofsky's face. "What did you punks do, Karofsky?"

"Nothing you wouldn't have done six months ago, before you started _hanging out _with that little fag," Azimio answered, his lip curled in a sneer. "You've gone all soft on us, Puckerman. All you guys from Homo Explosion, big buncha girls all singing about your _feelings _and hanging all over each other. _Dancing_ like fools. Makes me sick."

Puck growled and grabbed Azimio by the collar. Karofsky got to his feet, shoving his way out of the booth, and Matt stepped up chest to chest with the big hockey player. Behind them, Mike cracked his knuckles as the pizza place suddenly went very quiet.

Then the owner of the place was there, with a really big kitchen knife in one meaty fist, and two of the bigger busboys were pushing the belligerent teens apart. "Out!" the cook ordered Puck and his friends. "Pay your bill and get out. No fighting in my place!"

Shooting a dark glance at the jocks, Puck let them push him and the others away from the table. Dropping a handful of crumpled bills on the counter, he strode out the door. Matt and Mike followed close on his heels, Mike lingering only long enough to pay the rest of their tab.

It was all Mike could do to walk out of there, feeling as stiff-gaited as a gunfighter from an old western - he hated when people made fun of his dancing. And he hated to think that the jocks had messed with Kurt when he and the others weren't around. Even if it was just tearing up his jacket, it must have upset Kurt. They all knew that was one of his favorites.

He tried not to think about the fact that they knew it from how he'd always made them wait while he took it off before they tossed him into the dumpster. No wonder he was spending all evening doing, well, whatever it was they did at a salon.

He wondered if that was what had happened to tear Kurt's jacket. Oddly, Puck and Finn (well, mostly Finn) had kept things from really getting too rough. When they had been the two ringleaders, they'd kept the really sadistic urges of the more violent members of the group in check.

The cook glared at him, snapping him out of his reverie. "Tell your friends, if they hang out in my parking lot waiting to start trouble, I'll call the cops."

When Mike reached his car, Matt was already on the phone to Finn and Puck was leaning on his truck glaring back at the pizza guy, who was eyeing the two cars through the window, so Mike started up the engine. "Puck! Let's go, before he does call the cops."

Matt folded his phone shut. "Finn says he went to the salon. He says that if they wrecked his coat, that could take hours, they spoil him rotten there."

Puck kicked viciously at the rear tire of his truck, but he climbed into his truck. "Let's go to my place, we can blow up zombies for a while," he called out the window.

Mike followed the truck as it roared out of the lot, tires squealing. Blowing up things sounded like a good plan. He could always picture Azimio's face instead. He just wished he could shake the feeling that their trouble with the jocks, especially over Kurt Hummel, was not over.

_

* * *

Finn B. Hummel (8:01): Is Kurt their?_

_Mercedes Kurt (8:00): Where u at? ansr UR PHONE!_

_B. Hummel Finn Hudson (8:05): no, went for a haircut, always takes awhile. Prbably spendg his whole week'd allownce_

_Mercedes Kurt (8:05): U better not be shpping w/o me, or else_

_B. Hummel Finn Hudson (8:06): he'll stay til they kick him out. Called him a few minutes ago to remind him about tonite, no answer, _

_B. Hummel Finn Hudson (8:06): but if he's shopping, yanno _

* * *

Dave Karofsky sat back down, feeling the adrenaline fade away in the aftermath of the almost-fight. Someone clapped him on the shoulder, saying something about how they'd showed those gleefags who ruled, and Azimio was telling them again about how they'd run into Hummel and the look on his face and the way he'd shrieked when they had tossed him into the closet and he'd realized they were gonna leave him there. And he couldn't stop picturing it himself. How they'd wiped the smirk right off his face.

Hummel had looked a little scared when they had first come into the room- startled, because he hadn't expected them. A little more concerned when he had realized they had him basically trapped. He hadn't really looked scared until Azimio had pinned him and he'd known this was gonna be more than an exchange of insults - that their threats finally, really meant something.

And that moment, when he'd started taking them seriously? Not gonna lie, Dave thought, that had been kinda sweet. When he'd started to fight back, too.

But there had been a moment, when Dave had stopped and looked into Hummel's face, and couldn't quite figure out what he saw there. They'd managed to break that irritating composure, and the arrogant superior smirk was gone, replaced with a kind of weary resignation. But still, even then, even with the tears of pain starting, there was a determination in his eyes. Defiance.

Dave now knew one thing for certain. Whatever they did, no matter how far they took things, they weren't going to change Hummel. No matter how bad things got or how often they threw him into dumpsters or ruined his clothes with slushies, or even threatened to punch his face in. Hummel couldn't, wouldn't back down. Even, it seemed, when he couldn't win, when it was certain he'd only get hurt.

Karofsky _liked_ fighting. He lived for the moment in hockey when he could crush an opponent into the wall, or when the gloves came off and it turned into a free-for-all. He liked the way the other kids in the halls were scared of him.

But what had happened today wasn't like that. Hummel'd had no chance against him and Zim. What did that prove? That they could mess him up, shred his stupid outfit, terrify him, make him cry? They knew that already. This hadn't proved anything. They'd beat up a kid who couldn't - wouldn't fight back.

Actually, he would, just not their way. Because he'd be back, Monday morning, still _Hummel_, with his perfect posture and his cutting remarks, his weird clothes, bruises covered with the makeup he used to cover the zits on his jaw and that huge pair of sunglasses. He wasn't gonna change.

Almost as if echoing his thoughts, one of the guys asked, "Imagine if he's in there until Monday morning?" That brought another round of laughter and excited speculation. But Karofsky suddenly felt sick.

What if? He'd assumed that Shuester would have gone right back to the glee room; he'd only gone down the hall with Figgins. Or a janitor would have come along by now and let the kid out. He must be home by now, right? Not still sitting there in the closet. Not there all weekend.

But what if...? Karofsky remembered their science teacher telling them that people could go for a while without food... it was water that they couldn't go without. And the coaches were always on them to make sure to drink enough water. How long would it take? Surely longer than three days...

And ... what if? Dave realized, suddenly, there would be bad consequences even if he wasn't hurt. If Hummel was left in that closet over the weekend, this would get really bad, really fast. Hummel's dad would notice he was gone. There would be cops, and a search, and blame. He could get expelled. He would be off the hockey team for sure, and Dave lived for hockey.

He pulled another strip of the torn jacket from his pocket, stared at it for a moment, while Zim was outlining plans for terrorizing the rest of the losers in the glee club the next week, with elaborate scoring schemes and points for different levels of bullying. Was this the kind of trophy he wanted, was this really something he was proud of?

He kept hearing Hummel's shriek of pain as Zim had twisted his arm behind his back, hearing him calling to them to come back, to let him out. They might have hurt him, bad. He'd had Zim tackle him before, just _playing_, and Zim hit _hard_.

All around him the voices blurred into nonsense. He stood up abruptly, stuffing the stupid piece of cloth back into his coat pocket. He needed to get out of here, clear his head, think this through; he felt dizzy, like he was standing in a high place.

He got abruptly to his feet. "Hey, where ya goin'?" Zim asked, "Pizza's not even here yet." Karofksy muttered something about hitting the head and made his way to the mens' room. When the pizza did arrive, he took advantage of the commotion to slip outside and away. From the lot he texted Zim to let him know he needed to go home. Then he took off at a run for the school.

He needed to know.

_Finn M. Jones (8:15): He's salon. Burt says he'll be a wihle._

_M. Jones Finn (8:18): yeah, Must have his phone off, 'cause I called 2._

?:?

Kurt had thought he was doing pretty well at the whole not panicking thing, at keeping calm and rational. His phone kept chirping with text alerts, which meant that people were trying to talk to him, and soon they'd be trying to find him, right?

But all of a sudden, he felt the panic he'd been staving off well up in his chest, threatening to choke him. He found himself on his feet, kicking at the solid wood of the door with all the strength he could muster, shouting at the top of his lungs again, while a tiny, detached part of his mind repeated over and over again that it was no good, the door was too solid, there was no one here to hear him.

Finally, his voice gave out, and he found himself kneeling on the floor again, his bruised chest heaving painfully as he worked to catch his breath, coughing from the dust he'd raised with his frantic attempt to get out.

He had to calm down again, he chided himself, climbing to his feet again to get clear of the dust. He must be a real sight, he thought with a humorless chuckle, dusty, sweaty, and disheveled. He ran a still-shaking hand through his hair- it was wildly disarrayed, and there was no use trying to fix it.

Still, as much as he would ordinarily hate anyone to see him looking like this, he'd be happy to have someone, anyone open that door right now.

He had to trust in the fact that his dad would freak out when he didn't come home. He'd call someone. He'd start looking. Or Finn - he and Finn had had a rocky week, but Finn would do something if he got to the Hummel's' house and Kurt wasn't there. He'd call Mercedes, at least. They'd start looking for him, and eventually they would check the school, surely long before Monday morning.

So all Kurt needed to do was be patient, and try not to think about how small the space was, or how long a person could go without food and water, or how much he REALLY needed to pee now. He just had to trust that even if Schue didn't get back here tonight, by morning, at the very latest, people _would_ be looking for him.

In the meantime, he was _not_ going to panic again, he was not going to suffocate, the closet _was not haunted_, he wasn't seeing things in the dark, and he most certainly was not going to cry (any more) and make his already abused face look even more blotchy and puffy. _Someone will come_, he repeated to himself over and over.

His heart had finally stopped pounding so loudly (and so fast), and he was about to settle back down on the floor, when he heard a sound out in the choir room. _Footsteps._


	10. Chapter 10

AN: 3000 words, guys. Vacations are good for writing. Niagara Falls is awesome!

* * *

Karovsky

The school was virtually deserted when he got there, but he knew which door the janitor habitually left unlocked so he could sneak outside for a smoke - near the gym he would have to clean up after the Friday night AA meeting let out. It was in the opposite wing from the choir room, so he had to sneak through the darkened hallways, lit only by the emergency lights.

The choir room was quiet and dark when he arrived, and for a moment, he thought he must have been right, that someone had already let Hummel out. Then he heard one soft thump against the door of the closet, and a barely-audible sigh. He moved closer as quietly as he could, and used the light from his phone to check the doors... they were still tied shut with a strip of fabric from the lining of the coat - and the rest of the coat lay in tatters on the floor still. He stopped, uncertain of what he wanted to do next. He took a couple of steps back from the door.

Too much. Hummel had apparently heard him move. "Mr. Schuester?" came a raspy voice, small in the darkness. "Are you there? Is someone there? Anyone? I'm over here; someone thought it would be funny to lock me in. Could you just open the door please?"

Karofsky froze. It would be easy, he thought, to just go on and leave. Maybe call in an anonymous tip from somewhere. He turned on his heel to go... and tripped over one of the scattered chairs. The scrape was very loud in the silence of the classroom.

"Mr. Schuester? Hello? I'm in here, please, let me out!" Hummel had clearly heard him; his voice grew stronger and more certain. Karofsky was a little surprised to find that Hummel sounded pretty together, still. He'd expected him to be a weepy, freaked-out mess. Sure, he sounded tired, and a little desperate, but still calmer than Dave expected, and it really kinda bugged him.

But that was one of the really irritating things about Hummel now- he got bitchy, and angry, but he didn't really fall apart anymore. The first few dumpster tosses had worked, but after a while, even though you could feel him shaking when you picked him up, he just went with it. No kicking or screeching or fighting...and then he'd show up later looking like nothing had happened, except wearing a different outfit.

Hummel's phone, on the floor near the closet door, rang, kept ringing, while he paced, thinking. If he let Hummel out now, he'd have to face him. Have to admit he'd come back, and Hummel would think he had been worried or something. And word would get around that he'd gone soft. What had he been thinking?

* * *

_Finn Rachel (8:38): his dad says Kurt's salon, or may b shopping _

_Rachel Finn (8: 43): k, good don't tell him I asked._

_Finn Rachel (8:45): I'm heading out, I'll call u when I get home._

_Missed Call: Dad_  
_Missed Call: Finn_  
_Missed Call: Mercedes_  
_Batt. low 20%_

_

* * *

_

"Who's there? I can hear you... " Kurt could hear footsteps, moving slowly back and forth, near the door, and it was really going to make him crazy. Like whoever it was, they were taunting him with the possibility that this could all be over. He stifled a sob that threatened to betray his composure. Whoever it was... it wasn't Mr. Schuester, or another teacher, or one of his friends. That meant it could only be... "Karofsky?" His voice came out in a squeak; his throat was tight with panic.

A hand slammed into the door where he'd leaned his head, and Kurt fell back against the back wall of the closet again with a startled cry. "Shut up, Hummel!" Karofsky snarled. He heard Hummel move back slowly to the door again, saw the door shift as the trapped boy leaned against it and it opened as much as it was going to.

"Karofsky? What are you doing?" Kurt asked him, an edge of desperation to his voice. "Why...are you here?"

"Just shut up," Karofsky snarled again, angry with himself. Hummel had figured out who had come back, and he'd tell the others that Dave had wimped out and let him go. He couldn't do it. But he couldn't just go either, because there would still be trouble if he didn't let the little fag out.

Kurt slumped against the wall for a long moment, listening to his phone ring again - Little Pink Houses. Dad. He had to convince Karofsky to let him out, or at least to give him his phone, his father would be really getting worried. "Dave," he began, hoping that using the jock's first name would somehow get through to him. Maybe he really could reason with Karofsky right now; it was the only option he had at the moment, anyway. "Come on, Dave, you came back here for a reason. This can't be making you feel good, that's why you came all the way back, right? You don't want to leave me here all night, do you? Wouldn't you rather be the guy who did the right thing, and let me go? Dave, just open the door, I promise, I won't tell anyone it was you. I won't tell the guys you let me out either." He took a breath- he'd been talking too fast. "This is your chance to show that you're a better man than the rest of those knuckle-draggers, Dave."

"_Knuckle -draggers?_" He heard Karofsky move abruptly as he spat out the words, and froze, swearing softly. He'd gone too far - god, why couldn't he ever just _shut up_ while he was ahead?

"You'd better _not_ say anything," Karofsky growled, guilt building back into anger again as Kurt's words uncannily echoed his own thoughts. And then Hummel had to go and insult him and his friends..."You ever even mention my name, I'll make sure you get a whole weekend to think about it. Or... you think it's so brave to stand up for the other girls in your stupid glee club, one of them might like some quiet time in here..."

"No!" Well, there was that panic Dave had been listening for. "Don't do that! I promise, I won't say anything about you locking me in here, just let me out and there won't be any need for me to ever say anything!" He sounded like he was breathing heavy, and his voice kept getting higher and higher as Dave didn't answer, thinking. "What do you _want_ from me, Karofsky? " It was practically a wail of despair; Hummel was finally losing it, breaking under the strain, and Karofsky felt like he was back in control again.

He pounded on the door again; it drew another sobbing gasp. "That's good, Hummel, keep it up. I wanna hear you beg... or I'm gonna leave you here. I'm betting that by Monday morning, you're gonna be completely nuts. Can't you feel the walls closing in on you now? And I'll bet you're hungry... we had pizza a while ago, it was great. And a nice tall cold glass of water..."

And then he heard Kurt's phone chirp its low battery warning again, and he had an idea. He picked up the phone and scrolled through the contact list. Who should he call...? He stopped on one name, grinning. He'd found a solution, he thought, and dialed, listening to Kurt's voice continue to plead with him.

Kurt felt his control slipping away at Karofsky's threats and taunts. There was a small part of him that remained detached, berating him for giving in, for giving his tormentor what he wanted. He knew that Karofsky wanted to make him feel helpless, humiliated - that the jock wanted to hear him break down.

He wanted to hold out, to hang on to his dignity, if nothing else, but the thought that Karofsky would really leave him alone here again was too much to bear. He just wanted _out_, and the feeling was overwhelming him and he couldn't fight it any longer no matter how much he knew he was going to regret it later. He was exhausted, he _hurt_, he was scared, he had nothing left to hold out _with_. He kicked, he pounded, listening to his own voice pleading ever more desperately and his own ragged breathing nearly drowning out Karofsky's voice.

When he finally wound down, crumpling slowly to the floor in an utterly exhausted heap, it took a while to realize that he was alone again. Sometime during his humiliating little breakdown, Karofsky had taken off again... and the door was still firmly tied shut. He curled into a ball on the floor, too worn out even to cry. He wondered with wry weariness if he would _ever_ get out, or if they'd open the door someday and find just a huddle of bones and polyester on the floor.

Brittany and Santana

The mall had been boring, as usual, and Santana and Brittany had just managed to ditch the boys who had paid for their dinners when Brittany's phone rang. She glanced down at the screen and gave an excited squeak. "It's Kurt!" she told Santana happily. Santana rolled her eyes in fond exasperation. Ever since Brittany had "dated" Kurt, she'd been weirdly attached to him. He'd treated her with an old-fashioned courtesy, hadn't been grabby... and had let her down almost too gently when he'd decided to stop trying to act straight. Santana would have been angry at him for using Brit to figure things out, but he'd just been so... nice to her. But Santana was actually a little worried about the fact that she got so excited over a phone call from him.

Santana gave the security guard who was trying to herd them out the mall doors one of her patented death glares when she realized that he had managed to step in between her and Brittany. Turning back to see what had happened to separate her from the blonde, she found that Brit had stopped dead in her tracks, and the crowd of people leaving the mall was jostling her as she tried to listen to the phone. Her face was clouded with confusion, a look Santana often saw her wear, but there was also real worry in her voice. "Let me talk to Kurt!" Santana heard her demand. She sounded scared. "Kurt!"

Reaching Brittany's side, Santana guided the blonde outside onto the sidewalk and away from the crowd. She tapped Brit's arm to get her attention - the other girl was listening to the phone intently, and... Were those tears? If Hummel was making her cry, he was gonna get it. "What is it, Brit?" she asked, when her friend looked up into her eyes.

"Kurt's phone called me... but it's being mean and it said that Kurt can't talk to me. But I can hear him yelling, and he sounds scared!" She angled the phone so Santana could listen, too. "Why won't you let me talk to him, phone? You're supposed to be_ his_ phone, it's your job! What are you doing to him? Why are you being so mean?" she demanded tearily.

"Listen," said a male voice that was definitely not Kurt's (and sounded like whoever it was might be trying to disguise his voice, but Santana vowed that whoever it was, she would figure it out and make his life hell, just for making Brit so upset. Doubly so if Hummel was actually hurt, because that would _really_ upset Brit, and Coach Sylvester – she repressed a shudder at that thought- and Mr. Schuester…). "He can't come to the phone. So you better come find him." In the background, the girls could hear Kurt's voice, shouting, hysterical, too faint to make out much more than the fact that he was upset, or scared, over a rhythmic pounding sound. Then, abruptly, there was a beep and the line went silent.

Santana cursed softly in Spanish and pulled out her own phone, hit the second speed dial button. "Puckerman? Yeah, shut up and listen. Anyone have any idea where Hummel might be?"

Puck had been lounging on the couch in his living room, watching Matt trounce Mike at Mario Kart. Now, he sat bolt upright and grabbed the remote, muting the TV and drawing protests from the other boys. He held up a hand to silence them. "Finn says he went to the salon for a haircut. Why?" At Mike's questioning look, he mouthed, "Santana," and shrugged.

"Brit just got a call. From his phone. Someone else using it, though, and we could hear Kurt yelling in the background. Someone's messing with him, we need to find him. And kill them. He sounds bad, and it made B cry. Q there?"

"On it," Puck waved Mike over, said, "Get Finn on the line, and Matt, can you call Artie? " Matt nodded and dug out his phone as well. "Something's going down with Hummel, we need to figure out where he might be." To Santana, he said, "Quinn's out with Aretha - "he ducked away from Matt's glare- "I mean Mercedes. Where are you, do you need a ride?"

"No, we brought Brit's car. Where should we meet?" Brittany was still staring wide-eyed at her phone, though the call had clearly ended. Santana was sure she would need to spend all day tomorrow assuring her that her own phone was not going to try to hold her or anyone else hostage. "Brit," she whispered, "Can you call Quinn?" With something concrete to do, Brittany snapped out of it and found Quinn's number.

Within a few minutes, they had reached all the members of the glee club. Rachel was picking Finn up; Mercedes was swinging by to get Artie and Tina. The plan was to meet at the school, since Mercedes had checked with the salon and found that they had closed just a few minutes earlier at 9, but that Kurt had not been in at all that night.

* * *

Burt finished putting his tools away and called a good-night to his two mechanics as they cleaned up together, making plans to grab a drink on the way home. He checked his phone again; he'd expected to hear from Kurt by now. He was surprised; it was quarter after nine. He looked up the number for the salon Kurt liked, and gave them a call. It rang and rang, and then the answering machine told him that they were open 9 - 9. He'd just missed them. He tried Kurt's phone again, but it went straight to voice-mail this time. It wasn't like Kurt to let the battery die completely, Burt thought as he dialed the house phone. Or to not call in when his plans changed or he was running late.

He really was fortunate that way. Kurt hated to have his father worried about him, and so he checked in more frequently than Burt figured most of his friends did. Especially since those horrible phone calls had started, and the increased harassment at school that Kurt thought he was hiding from Burt successfully. Burt knew he had more to worry about than many parents did, now that his son was being open about who he was - and Kurt knew it, too. Burt knew how others would react - he remembered being one of those guys, and he'd been in school with the Berry kid's father. Well, with one of them.

He couldn't imagine that that big Karofsky kid, for example, was any better than his old man had been. The day the furniture had been nailed to the roof had been a mild indication of what would surely come. There had been a couple of mornings when Burt had been glad that Kurt was not a particularly early riser - or very alert in the mornings - and that Burt was. He had taken to inspecting the house for spray-painted slurs in the mornings, and had bought himself a power-washer to keep in the attached garage after the first time had meant an hour of scrubbing to make sure it was gone before his son had to see it.

It was hard, letting his kid fight his own battles sometimes, when all he wanted to do was punch anyone who gave Kurt a hard time. Which would help no one. Least of all Kurt.

He really hoped this was a normal, teenage boy kind of oversight tonight, but a nagging little voice kept telling him that it was different; with Kurt it was always different. Especially since he wasn't getting an answer at home, either, and the only messages on the machine were from him and from Finn, who'd also been looking for Kurt. And Finn's line was busy.

Time to play the trump card. When he'd bought the Navigator, without telling Kurt, he'd installed a Black Box tracker. Kurt was a responsible kid, but he was a kid. A kid with a powerful engine at his command, and a ton of metal to back it up. He was a kid, more importantly, who'd drawn a big target on his back. And especially since the rock-through-the-window incident, he'd felt it was justified. Now it was just the work of a moment to get the Lincoln's current location on his cell phone.

The car was parked, and when he checked the map, it was still at the school. Burt's breath caught: the car hadn't moved from the parking lot since Kurt had parked it at 7:30 am.

He'd last heard from his son at a little after four.

_Five hours had passed_... and something had happened to his son, something that had prevented him from answering his phone, had kept his car in the school parking lot. His hands shook so hard he thought he'd drop the phone. "Alex!" he bellowed when he found his voice. The older mechanic turned back from where he'd been stowing his tools. "Lock up for me, I gotta go."

He ran to his own beat-up truck, and headed for the school to find his kid, hoping he'd find that Kurt was just caught up in some glee club thing, and all it meant was he'd have to ground him for a few days.

And fight his own growing desire to _never_ let his kid out of his sight again.


	11. Chapter 11

9:12

Rachel and Finn arrived first, and Rachel stopped the car short when they came around the corner of the building and saw Kurt's Navigator, still parked where it had been that afternoon. "Oh, no,_ Finn_," she said softly, "he's been here all along? All night?" She slowly rolled into the parking space next to the SUV, and with exaggerated care shut off the engine and made sure the Pruis was in park, before turning to him, her eyes wide. "I should have gone in with him, I _knew_ something would happen..."

Finn reached over and gave her arm a gentle shake. "Come on, we're gonna find him. He's gonna be all right." Lights entering the lot caught his eye. "Look, here's Puck and the guys, and that's Brit right behind him. Is that Mercedes' car down at the corner?" Finn made a quick circuit of Kurt's pride and joy, relieved to find that it, at least, was unharmed and un-vandalized. But where was Kurt? He got back into Rachel's car, and told her, "Park near the gym, Puck says sometimes that door gets left unlocked."

In moments the entire glee club was assembled outside the gym. While Matt and Mike helped get Artie's chair out of the trunk of Mercedes' car and settle their friend into it Finn tried to figure out the best way to search. Finn raised his voice over the babble of distressed voices (Quinn was comforting a distraught Mercedes, and he could hear Rachel's little guilt-ridden monologue to Tina and Artie about how she should have gone with him, should have made Finn go, should have just waited for Kurt, she'd had a feeling something bad would happen...).

"Huddle up, everybody, this is what we're gonna do. Puck, see if we can get into the school?" and the other boy nodded once. "Then you and me, we're gonna check the dumpsters all around the building." Puck jogged off to check to see if the gym door was still open. Mercedes moaned softly, and Finn patted her arm awkwardly.

"Matt, Mike, follow Puck and go look in the locker room, Britt, you and Santana go, too, and check the girls' lockers, you'll know all the places to look. Again, text me if you find him." He turned back to where the rest of the group huddled together. " Rachel, you and Quinn take the second floor, Artie and Tina and Mercedes, take the first floor. Check every bathroom, janitor's closet, and classroom, and be careful. Everyone keep your phones handy, use them when you find him. We'll all meet at the choir room; it's the far side of the school so we'll have covered the whole place by then."

Puck rejoined them. "Door's open still, which means at least one janitor is still here, so be careful."

"Ok," Finn said with a sharp nod. "You know what to do. Break!"

At least half the group gave him a puzzled look, and Puck rolled his eyes. "Go!" Puck growled with a shooing motion, and they headed into the building; nearly everyone but Matt and Mike were gripping someone else's hand tightly or had an arm around someone. He turned to Finn and they set off across the parking lot toward the first dumpster. "Man, I hope he's not out here," Puck said as they headed for it. "It's freakin' cold out here tonight."

9:17  
Schuester  
Finally, the school loomed in Will's headlights. Home at last, he thought wryly, relieved and very weary. He pulled into the parking lot, driving around to the door nearest the choir room entrance. He got out of the car and stretched, feeling his spine crack as he straightened. It had been a very long evening. Dragging the first plastic trash bag full of costumes out of the back seat of his car, he hefted it over one shoulder, feeling like an ironic parody of Santa Claus, and sorted out the key he'd never returned after his brief stint as a janitor on his key ring. Unlocking the door, he slipped inside and dropped it where it would hold the door open for him. He went back to the car for the second one.

He only had to cross the corridor with his burden, thankfully. He set the bag down to open the choir room door and flipped on the lights before shouldering it again. He was halfway to the closet when he noticed the puddle of vaguely familiar-looking dark blue fabric on the floor. He stopped in his tracks, and looked around - his choir room looked like there had been a brawl in here. The chairs were scattered, and there was a cell phone lying on the floor near the door of the closet.

Will dropped the bag to the floor when he saw how the closet doors had been tied together tightly with a strip of cloth that matched the shredded stuff on the floor - shreds of what seemed to be a coat, or a... jacket. A jacket he now recognized with a shock as the one Kurt had been carrying earlier that day. _Oh, my god_, he thought, _what happened here?_

There had been no sound from the closet at all, and that scared him. He hadn't been quiet coming in. Maybe Kurt wasn't here at all... or maybe he was hurt too badly to respond, or even unconscious. He approached the door warily, almost as if he were approaching a wild animal. "Kurt?" he asked quietly. "Are you in there?"

"Mr... Schuester?" Kurt's voice sounded disbelieving. "Is that you?"

"Yeah, Kurt, hang on, I'll... I'm going to get the scissors from my desk, I'll be right back." He heard Kurt scramble to his feet, and hurried back to the desk, rummaging in the drawers for the ancient pair of black-handled scissors that every teacher's desk seemed to contain. They weren't particularly sharp, and it took a few moments of sawing frantically at the fabric, but it finally parted. Will tore it off the handles and threw the doors open.

Kurt stood framed in the open doors, a hand thrown up to shield his eyes from the sudden bright light, squinting at Will. Will stared back at his student in shock, and felt fury welling up inside him.

He had _never_ seen Kurt Hummel in such a state before, not even in the aftermath of the slushie war.

Disheveled.

Dirty.

Kurt's hair stood up in spiky disarray, and his face was streaked with dust and tear tracks. He was paler than Will had ever seen him, and visibly shaking.

As he stepped out tentatively into the room, Will could see that one side of his face was bruised and swollen - in fact, that eye was nearly swollen shut. The collar of his Cheerios uniform was torn and hanging open from the point of its v-neck, revealing another large, deeply purple -almost black - mark in the center of his chest.

"_Kurt_," he said, reaching out to catch the boy by the arm as he stumbled forward, and feeling a fresh wave of alarm when Kurt hissed in pain and he looked down to see that the wrist he held was also heavily bruised and swollen. There were black and blue _fingerprints_ visible on his upper arms where Kurt had clearly been grabbed far too forcefully. "Who_ did _this?"

But, of course, Will already knew. Maybe he didn't know names, but he knew. It wasn't like he didn't see it every day. It wasn't like he didn't remember how it all worked from his own days in high school - not all that long ago. Kids like Kurt (or Tina, or Rachel, or Mercedes, Artie, Suzy Pepper, Jacob Ben Israel, dozens of other students at the bottom of the social scale)- whatever reason, whatever difference, it marked them out as prey to the rest of the pecking order even before high school.

They weren't real people to those kids at the top. Not people with feelings, people who got hurt. They were just... rag dolls. Just embodiments of a concept (like "gay," or "weird," or "nerd") that made the rest of the kids uncomfortable. The pack didn't want to be uncomfortable, and their unspoken, unconscious mandate to keep the strange ones in line dictated that those who ruled the school - the jocks, the popular girls, whoever- had to make a show of dominating them. Following the time-honored tradition from cave days, they did their best to keep those social lines clearly drawn, so they wouldn't find themselves suddenly at the bottom.

Look how fast and how far Finn and Quinn had fallen this year.

Maybe it was a little like they were voodoo dolls... stick pins in them to keep the bad mojo away. The scapegoat principle. Whatever.

You could see it -Will_ did _see it - every day in these halls. Looking at Kurt blinking before him as his eyes adjusted to the light again, he could see - remember- countless moments where this one student had been their target. It wasn't like he was blind to it really. He'd known how incongruous it was for Kurt to be hanging out with a group of jocks (that had once included _his_ jocks, he knew) beside a dumpster in the mornings, and then showing up for second period in a completely different outfit. He knew that the arm slung over Kurt's shoulders as Will approached had been a warning and a restraint, not a friendly thing. Many times he'd wanted to say, "Walk with me, Kurt," to draw the boy out of their grasp, but then-

He knew, even as he watched them in the halls, and saw a guy twice Kurt's size shoulder him hard into a wall of lockers and walk off, laughing with his buddies, that if he called them on it, gave them a detention, two things would happen: First, it would be passed off as normal-guy-rough-housing (it happened all the time, the playful shoulder-bumps in the halls, as they tested their strength against each other. It was part of the male-bonding-thing. Like stags clashing antlers or wolf-pups play-fighting.)

Never mind that they hit Kurt too hard. Or that they were twice his size.

(Or that they weren't his friends... that it wasn't bonding, it was bullying.)

Second, if he did give them a detention, they'd be angry,they'd blame their victim, and the next time, they'd hit that much harder. Or move on to something worse. Something more hidden. Something more violent.

Something like _this_.

It was justification, not doing anything out of the fear (the understanding) that it would only make things worse. It was wrong. But sometimes it was the lesser of two evils. Sometimes whatever you could do backfired.

_(And sometimes it got to this point anyway.)_

Kurt was pulling away from him, and his voice broke Will's reverie. His voice was hoarse, tired sounding, a little desperate. "Mr. Schuester... I really need to go to the men's' room..."

"Oh, sure, Kurt... you want me to go with you?" How long had the poor kid been locked in here... since right after practice? Five hours...?

"No!" Kurt shook his head vehemently, but went on with a little less of an edge to his voice, "I'm fine, I just..."

Nodding, Will released his arm. "Come straight back here, Kurt, we need to talk. I want an answer," he told the young man on his firmest teacher-voice. "I mean it."

Kurt fled down the hall. If the look on Mr. Schuester's face was anything to go by, he must look pretty terrible. He didn't even glance in the mirror over the sinks until he had done what he needed to do first. Then he stopped and took a good look at himself.

He was a mess. There was no way around it. He washed his hands and face, getting rid of the worst of the dust and tear tracks, wincing as he patted the skin dry with a paper towel. He ran damp hands through his hair in an attempt to restore some order to it, but without his usual array of products and the right tools it was hopeless. Better, but not good.

He studied his face in the mirror for a moment. While makeup could hide the worst of the bruising, there was swelling on that side of his face, and his wrist and shoulder ached badly enough that he wasn't sure how he was going to manage a wrench in the morning. Maybe it would be possible with a large enough dose of aspirin. Then he had to either cancel with Mercedes and the others, or find a way to convince her that something had happened at work, and hope that the rest of the weekend was enough time for the worst of that swelling to go down.

He really didn't want to think ahead to Monday, when Coach Sylvester had told him he would need to be able to show improvement in his back round-off.

Still, the first step was to get home. With luck, he could slip in through the kitchen before Dad got a good look at him, plead a headache, and hide in his room while he engaged in some damage control. He just had to get away from Mr. Schuester... which wouldn't be easy, now that the teacher was on full red alert.

He straightened up from the sink, and took a bracing, deep breath, squaring his shoulders and raising his chin, giving himself a sharp little nod. He was fine, really. He just really needed to get home.


	12. Chapter 12

Will watched him leave the classroom reluctantly. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, absently noting the rasp of five-o-clock shadow, then made up his mind, and strode out into the hallway in time to see Kurt vanish into the restroom. He followed, taking a position leaning against the wall, waiting for the boy to come back out. The long night must be getting to him, he thought - he could have sworn he heard shuffling footsteps, whispers... but the corridors were dark and deserted.

When he heard the water splash in the sink, he straightened up.

When Kurt came back out into the hall, he was badly startled at first to find his teacher standing there, and fell back a step with a sort of squeak. "M-Mr. Schuester," he stammered. "Um... All set. I'll see you Monday?"

"Come on, Kurt," the teacher said shaking his head, "let's get your things together and you can tell me what happened. And you should give your Dad a call, he must be getting worried, it's after nine." He checked the time in his own cell. "Yeah, it's almost 9:30." He looked up at Kurt's groan of dismay. "We're going to have to tell your father what happened tonight, Kurt. We can't let this slide."

* * *

Mike and Matt had finished their sweep of the locker room first, and headed for the choir room. When they passed Artie's group, they joined up with them - Mike suggested that they split up with him and Artie and Tina checking the classrooms on one side of the hall and Matt and Mercedes checking the other, ignoring the panicked look Matt sent him over Mercedes' head. When Britt and Santana caught up too, they decided to go on upstairs and help Quinn and Rachel finish their floor, too.

Fortunately for Finn and Puck, almost all the dumpsters were directly under lights, so Finn only had to actually boost Puck up into one to carefully check and make sure it didn't have any human inhabitants. To their vast relief, they were all Kurt-Hummel-free. And when they worked their way around the school, they were surprised to find that Mr. Schue's car was parked beside the door closest to the choir room and that the door was propped open with a garbage bag full of what seemed to be clothing.

Just as they were about to go ahead in, Kurt moved past them at speed, looking like he'd been mauled by a bear or something, and disappeared into the boys' bathroom at the end of the hall. They exchanged relieved glances - at least he was upright and looked mostly ok - and were about to follow him when Mr. Schuester came out of the choir room and took up a position outside the door. It almost seemed like he was afraid Kurt might bolt... which was a fair supposition, Finn realized.

Kurt always tried to hide how much bad stuff was happening from... well, from everyone. He knew that Kurt had never told Burt that Finn had ever thrown him into a dumpster, for example- he couldn't imagine Burt ever being friendly to him if he'd known about that.

It had made things easier for them when they were part of the... well, he knew now it_ was _bullying - Kurt never told, never asked anyone for help, almost never acknowledged it was even happening. He only seemed to get angry about things when one of the others got bullied as well. He had a weird sense of what Finn's mom would have called "chivalry" that way. A sort of macho that seemed strange coming from him.

Puck was texting rapidly to Santana. "I told them to meet us in the classroom around the corner. Room 110... She's gonna let the others know," he whispered to Finn. When Kurt and Schuester went past them again, talking quietly (well, Schue was talking, Kurt was looking like he'd rather be facing off with whoever had blackened his eye than going along with the teacher), they slipped into the building and around the corner as soon as the pair entered the choir room.

And not a minute too soon. An old pickup came around the corner at a good clip, and pulled in next to Kurt's Lincoln.

* * *

Will set one of the fallen chairs upright and gestured for Kurt to take a seat while he gathered up the remnants of the boy's jacket, his keys and phone. The phone was non-responsive, so he handed Kurt his own. "Call your dad," he told the young man, remembering his last encounter with Burt Hummel vividly. This encounter was not going to be good, either. He crossed back to his desk. Rummaging through the drawers, he found a granola bar, and he took a water bottle from his bag as well. Reaching Kurt's side, he righted another chair and straddled it, arms folded across the back, waiting for Kurt to finish his call.

"No answer, not at home, or the garage. And he's not picking up his cell, either." Kurt handed back the cell, clearly upset. He sounded terrible - raspy, hoarse, like he'd been yelling, and he was eyeing the water bottle longingly. Will twisted off the top for him- he was holding his right arm like it really hurt, tucked in close to his body, and had dialed the phone left-handed, clumsily - and Kurt drained it in about four seconds, then wolfed down the offered granola bar just as fast. He glanced over at his teacher, and Will watched color flood into his face; he looked a little embarrassed over having just inhaled the food, but it told Will that he'd clearly been here long enough to have missed dinner.

"All right, Kurt, feel a little more like yourself?" At his reluctant nod, the teacher made a gesture that included not only the battered teen in front of him but the open costume closet and the scattered chairs. "What happened here?" Kurt instantly regained that guarded look he wore so often, and Will sighed. "Kurt, please. Do _not_ tell me you're fine. This isn't a minor incident. Tell me what happened."

Kurt had just opened his mouth to answer when a shadow filled the doorway. "Yeah, Kurt," his father asked, his voice tight with barely contained anger and worry. "What's going on here?"

* * *

In Room 110, the rest of glee was clustered together, trying to decide what they should do.

"We need to get in there," Mercedes whispered. "He needs us."

Most of the girls nodded, but Finn shook his head. "He's not gonna want us to see him like this. He may _act_ girly sometimes," he met Rachel's glare with a shrug. "Well, he _does_. But he's a guy, like you pointed out, Rach, and he's got his pride."

Matt nodded reluctantly. "He'd probably rather we pretended this never happened."

Rachel frowned. "That might well be, but he needs us. We're a team. He's one of us. We need to stand together. And statistically, this sort of incident can lead to-"

Mercedes nodded emphatically cutting her off. "I hate to agree with Rachel, but she's right, he needs us. And he'll never ask us for help, Finn's right there, too, so we have to let him know he doesn't have to."

Finn was about to argue with them but Puck, who'd been watching the corridor, hushed them all abruptly with a sharp hiss. "What is it?" Finn asked in a stage-whisper.

"His dad, I think. He looks _pissed_." They all slipped as quietly as they could into the hall and huddled around the side door to eavesdrop. Puck eased it open a crack so they could hear.

* * *

When the alert on the tracking device that Sue Sylvester had planted on William Schuester's car indicated that he was pulling into the parking lot at McKinley, she turned on the monitor for the closed circuit camera she'd set up in the choir room (so she would have up to the minute intel on what her sworn foe was up to). She leaned back in her throne-like desk chair, relishing the sight of him lugging the heavy bag into the room, a triumphant smile creeping across her face.

She leaned forward and adjusted the camera angle on the live feed as he stopped dead in his tracks and dropped the bag in the middle of the floor, staring at something in the back of the room, his stiff posture suggesting... horror? While ordinarily that would delight her, she had a suspicion that this was not due to something of her own design, and that made her irritable. She switched to the second camera, the one that she had set up to cover the closet when she'd emptied it that afternoon, and zoomed in close to see what had caught his attention.

The doors of the closet were closed. Not so unusual... until she realized that they weren't just closed, they were _tied_ closed. She leaned in closer, watching avidly as Schuester worked to remove whatever held the door closed with the dull pair of scissors from his desk (she'd stolen the sharp pair and replaced them at the beginning of his tenure as the glee club advisor with the oldest, loosest-hinged pair she could find), waiting with bated breath to see what he discovered.

The door opened and the closet disgorged... a slight figure in a Cheerios uniform. She sat up straight, bristling with fury. One of her Cheerios had been trapped in the choir room closet! As the figure stepped into the light, she recognised her vocalist -her key to Nationals - and he looked like he'd gone thirty seconds with Tyson (Sue herself had gone forty five before the boxer was begging for mercy).

Keeping one eye on the live display, she keyed up the replay from her DVR, and scanned back to 4pm that afternoon, revelling for a moment in her own glorious performance when William Schuester had first discovered the empty closet, before beginning to review what had come after. At 4: 07, mere moments after she and Schuester had left the room, Lady Face had slipped in and collected his overly fussy coat-thing and was fiddling with his phone. When the two bigger boys came into the room, she leaned in close to see their faces. Those two boys would never lay a hand on one of her girls again. Maybe never on_ any_ girl ever again.

She growled audibly when one of the big goons tackled her cheer-leader, knocking him to the ground. When the second had caught him by the collar of his uniform and actually _tore the material _- while one of her Cheerios was _wearing_ it, no less! - she saw red. Her maid crossed herself and fled into the kitchen. Sue had to pause the playback to collect herself before going on, forcing herself to sit through the rest of their encounter, seething.

When it was over, she sat back in her chair, tapping one arm of her glasses against her chin. It seemed now was the time to begin incorporating Muay Thai into her cheer routines - her girls really ought to be able to acquit themselves better against such assailants. Lady Face certainly had potential - his high kicks, thanks to her, were phenomenal, but it had been too little too late. She would need to hone his killer instinct a bit.

Well, she thought, in any case, this would not stand. These miscreants would be punished to the fullest extent of the law. And then, it would be Sue's turn.

She made copies of the necessary footage, and sent email: William, Figgins,and Tanaka. If she could read her cheer-leader - and she could, the boy was as transparent as glass to her - he would resist giving up the names of his assailants, either out of fear of reprisals or because of misguided loyalty to the other girls on the glee roster. She didn't intend for them to go unpunished because of his qualms. She hit the send button and leaned forward again to watch the proceedings. The boy's father loomed in the doorway, an imposing figure, with a growl worthy of one Sue Sylvester. This should be interesting.


	13. Breaking point

Once he had determined that Kurt wasn't actually in his car, Burt locked it up and took a look around the parking lot. It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to notice the light streaming from an open door, propped open with a trash bag. If Kurt wasn't in the Navigator, the next logical place to check was the school, and here was his way in.

Inside, he found the corridor only dimly lit, but one classroom across the hall had light streaming from the open door, and he could hear voices, whispers in the dark, from that area, so he headed that way. He could hear a man's voice, louder, edged with both frustration and concern. And then, Kurt's name.

He wasn't sure what to expect when he got to the door, but given that he'd had no word from his kid in over five hours now, he knew it wouldn't be good. Still, the sight of his son, slumped in a chair, was a relief. Until he turned his head slightly, and Burt saw the bruised side of his face.

For one moment, he was frozen in place by an overwhelming, choking anger. He could feel his blood pressure spike; his ears rang with it. He had to make himself stop, unclench his fists, and take a breath. He folded his arms tightly across his chest, just trying to keep himself under control. While he wouldn't be averse to terrifying the teacher - what the hell, how had he let this happen?- he really didn't want to scare Kurt, who looked like he'd already been dragged bodily though hell. He made himself tune back in to the scene before him, just as Schuester spoke again. "... this isn't a minor incident. Tell me what happened."

Burt watched his son's jaw set in a stubborn line he knew so well, his chin starting to tilt up in a familiar, defiant posture, the thinning of Kurt's mouth as he pressed his lips together. He recognized those signs: Kurt's defensive line was in play. He wasn't going to tell the teacher anything.

Time for an end run. Burt could be just as stubborn as his son, and as determined. He was going to find out what had happened, and he was going to take names. Heads would roll - if need be, starting with Schuester's. Right now, he had surprise on his side, and if he had to scare Kurt into telling him what had happened, he'd do it. He stepped into the room. "Yeah, Kurt. What's going on here?"

Kurt sat bolt upright, his whole body going rigid as his head snapped around to look at his father. One hand flew up to close the torn collar of his uniform over his chest, but not before Burt could see the bruising there first. His expression was a classic-Kurt "deer in the headlights" look - the one eye that was visible went wide as a saucer as his gaze locked onto Burt's face. It would have been comical if not for the black eye, and the fact that the kid had been seriously worked over, and then had been missing for hours. He also actually looked guilty, like he'd been caught at something, and Burt really wanted to grab him and tell him it was going to be all right, anything to get that look off his face. But he needed Kurt to talk first.

So when Kurt muttered, "It was just a fight. Guys fight all the time-," Burt interrupted him with a curt, "That's bull, Kurt," and strode forward.

To his credit, Schuester's reaction to an angry man entering classroom was to leap to his feet and place himself protectively into Burt's path, shielding the stunned boy instinctively. Burt, however, wasn't in a very charitable mood. He was all but ready to shoulder the teacher out of the way when Kurt's voice, choking out, "Dad!" stopped him cold.

Both men turned to look down at him, and he slowly got to his feet. "It's not a big deal, really. I'm ok. Nothing's broken. Can we just go home?" he asked, letting his voice grow a little plaintive at the end, hoping that would persuade his dad to let it go. He was so tired... and he was sure that by morning, with a little time to think -and a little sleep - he could get the situation under control.

But neither his father nor Mr. Schuester was having any of that. His dad was shaking his head, and Will said, "I have to report this, Kurt. You know that. This wasn't 'just a fight,' I can see that. Someone beat you up and locked you in a closet. That's..."

"Completely unacceptable, Kurt," his father finished.

One look at his kid, standing there, looking at him like that and still trembling a little with fatigue and the stress of the whole thing, and he almost gave in. Almost said, "_You know what, Schuester, let me take him home and we'll all talk about this on Monday."_ But he knew, somehow, that once they left here, once it wasn't all so fresh (and so plainly visible in black and blue on his face) it would be nearly impossible to get Kurt to open up and tell them who was responsible. Leave it to Kurt to have this one streak of macho. So he steeled himself against his son's pleading gaze and shook his head. "I know you're tired, kid, so tell us what happened, and we can go home, ok?"

Kurt looked from one man to the other, and realized that they weren't going to let him downplay this. He dropped back into the chair with a defeated sigh, and pulled one knee up, hugging it against himself with the arm that didn't hurt, and tucking the bruised wrist out of sight.

The two adults exchanged a look over his head, and Burt saw Schuester's slight nod. Good cop, bad cop, then. He turned to the teacher. Not like these weren't questions he wanted answered anyway. "How the hell did this happen, Schuester? Where the hell were you? You let these kids beat on each other often?" When Schuester looked away, Burt's scowl deepened. But from the corner of his eye, he could see that Kurt had looked up again, ready to jump in and defend his teacher.

The kids nearest the door, Finn, Rachel and Puck, exchanged infuriated glances, and Finn and Rachel were prepared to march in there and defend the choir director when Puck shot them a glare and growled, "Wait. We need to know whose asses we need to kick." The rest of the guys (and Santana and a scarily angry-looking Tina) nodded agreement.

Matt also put one hand, daringly, on Mercedes shoulder, watching her bristle when Mr. Hummel spoke so sharply to Kurt. "Give it a minute," he whispered to her. "We're here if it gets any worse, but let his dad try to get him to talk." She shot him a glare, but put one hand up over his, and clutched at Quinn's hand with the other.

Frustrated because they couldn't get close enough to hear now that it was getting good, Santana pulled Brittany out into the hall to the side door. After a moment, and a look between Puck and Finn, Puck and Mike followed them.

"It wasn't his fault-" Kurt started, but his father cut him off.

"Like hell, Kurt, he's in charge here. There will be consequences, Schuester, "he growled as he swung back and moved in on Will, who looked genuinely stung. The teacher started to say something, but Kurt was on his feet, insinuating himself between the two men.

"Dad! Please, just... listen to me, ok? " Kurt put one hand on his father's arm, pushing him gently out of the other man's personal space. "He wasn't here- he watched us go out to the lot, all of us together, and then I came back in. I... even waited for him to leave," he finished a little guiltily. He didn't want to see Mr. Schuester take the blame for this; it had been his decision to come back in (alone), and to wait until the teachers were gone.

Burt looked down at him, feeling his scowl slip away. "Kurt, this is _not ok._ You were beaten up, and then they locked you in a closet for five hours. Thank god, you weren't hurt badly..."

Will added, "This is assault, Kurt. Whoever did this will have to face the consequences, if you just tell us who it is. We can expel them. You can even press charges." Burt nodded fiercely, liking that plan.

Kurt's gaze dropped from his father's face to the floor. "And then what happens?" he asked quietly. They have... they have friends. And their friends will take it out on my friends, dad. Next time, it could be Mercedes, or Tina, or Artie, or Rachel... or one of the other guys in glee could get beat up."

In the hallway and the other classroom, once again, dismayed and angry glances were exchanged. This time it was Puck who had to be held back, though Santana looked ready to join him, her eyes flashing with fury, even as Mike grabbed his arm and shook his head as he made a "wait for it" gesture. Artie grabbed for Tina's hand, his expression murderous. Mercedes buried her face in Matt's shoulder, and he wrapped both arms around her with a pole-struck look at Quinn, who was rubbing her shoulder and had her other hand draped protectively over her baby-bump. Rachel looked furious, and her mind was spinning with plans for an anti-bullying program she knew her dads could help organize. They all listened with a horrified fascination that froze them in place as the conversation went on.

"Is that what they told you, Kurt?" When he nodded reluctantly, Will continued more gently, "Kurt... You have to let us help you handle this. There are things we can do, to protect everyone, once we know who is responsible. We can talk to Coach Tanaka, for one thing, and make sure all the sports teams know that this sort of behavior will get them banned from participating. We can -"

Kurt's startled glance up at him when he mentioned the sports teams told him that he'd scored a hit there. Again, unsurprising... he'd seen them in the hallway, and it was only last week that two big guys had cornered Kurt, threatening him. The whole glee club had gone to back him up that day, and Will had hoped that the jocks would have backed off once they realized that Kurt now had some backup. But it seemed they had just waited to catch him alone. "There are steps we can take. We just need to know who it was."

"Kurt." His father spoke up again, his tone far more gentle now. "It's .. it's very noble that you want to protect your friends. But..."

He broke off, tried again. "You know you're worth protecting, too, right? And... I know you want to fight your own battles, kiddo, and I can respect that, but this... And this isn't just... me being overprotective - I know you hate that. This is way more serious than the other stuff you never tell me about because you want to handle it on your own. This-" he reached over and his hand hovered over the black-and-blue cheek, not quite touching, "This is over the line of what you should try to deal with alone." He put that hand on his son's shoulder, and his frown deepened when Kurt winced in pain. "C'mon, kid, sit down and tell us what happened, and then we'll go home."

Kurt let his father guide him back to his chair, and sank back down into it, trying to figure out what he should do. To be honest, a large part of him just wanted to go ahead and tell them. Let them handle it, let it all be over. Even the threats against the other glee members, the insinuations that it could and would only get worse._ I'm __**not**__ weak, _he thought angrily_, but I can't do this alone anymore. It's just too much. They're right- it's __**not**__ my job to protect everyone. _

But then there'd be so much... fuss. Police reports, headlines, angry jocks, all the wrong kinds of attention. Gossip. Repercussions. He drew up his knee again and rested his chin on it, his thoughts a dizzy whirl of potential pitfalls. The adults all seemed to think that punishing Karofsky and Azimio - even expelling them- and bringing in someone to talk about bullying would make it all go away, but he wasn't so sure.

Then again, he wasn't so sure he could bear his father being angry at him for not telling them who was responsible, either.

He could feel both men watching him while his mind went round and round on the same tracks. Finally, his father cleared his throat. "All right, Kurt. I can see I have no choice here." He turned to Will. "It's clear to me that the school can't protect him." He took a breath, looking at his son's bowed head.

"I'm transferring you to Carmel, Kurt."

Kurt came to his feet with a gasped protest- "NO! _Dad_!" -that was nearly lost in a loud crash outside, followed by a string of curses.

Both men spun towards the sound, startled, and Will strode to the door and threw it open. Out in the hallway, half his glee club was huddled together, obviously eavesdropping, every one of them wide eyed with shock. Well, all but Puck, who was punching a locker, again, and swearing. And from the other door, the whispers and shuffling that had been on the edge of being audible all night resolved into definite voices and movement, underlined by the sounds of someone weeping.


	14. Chapter 14

Will looked back over his shoulder at the Hummels, at Burt, who gave him a shrug almost as eloquent as one of Kurt's, then nodded. Kurt just looked miserable, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his usually perfect posture a defeated-looking slouch, but when his father nodded, he did, too. "Come on in guys," Will said, as the other door opened all the way. Will went out into the hallway, and gently touched Quinn on the shoulder, drawing her away from where she was hanging onto Puck's arm and talking to him in low, urgent tones. Puck was pretty much ignoring her, and driving his other fist into the locker again. "I've got him," he told her. "Go sit down."

When Will and Puck came into the choir room, the little group of teens had already surrounded Kurt. Burt had stood aside to let the ones from the hall scurry past him, fighting to keep his composure - and his resolve - when he realized what they had done.

They had all come out here to find Kurt, to make sure he was all right.

Kurt went red to the tips of his ears, and he looked like he was seriously wishing he could make himself invisible. Burt's heart ached for him. Did he somehow think that he should be embarrassed about... all of this? _He_ hadn't done anything wrong. (Except that Burt was certain that if his son could have found a way to swing it, no one would ever have known what had happened here tonight. Or who had done this to him.)

Then Mercedes had reached Kurt and drawn him -carefully- into a hug, and that embarrassed look had started to fade. The pregnant blonde girl - Quinn, he remembered from their Gaga rehearsal - who'd come in from the other side had put an arm around his waist, whispered something to him that had Kurt ducking his head against hers for a moment to awkwardly return her half-hug before she looked around for a chair. Almost every one of the kids, in fact, made a point of touching him as they moved in around him; even the two tall boys who brought up the rear had ruffled his hair or patted him awkwardly on the arm as they went to collect chairs for Mercedes and the tired-looking blonde, who was blotting tears from her cheeks surreptitiously with the sleeve of her sweater.

They ended up in a tight knot, Kurt at the center, wrapped now in someone's (probably Finn's, it was huge on Kurt, anyway) letter-man jacket as he finally let Mercedes press him back into his chair.

The last kid, # 20 (Puckerman? - the tough-looking boy who'd made the touchdown that had given Kurt the chance to kick his field goal) finally came in with Schuester, exchanged dark glances with Finn full of a conspiratorial promise of violence to come, and took up a place on the opposite side of the group. Burt noted the bloodied knuckles, and the dark glower on his face as his gaze locked briefly on Kurt's face, and how quickly the other boy had looked away when Kurt raised his chin to that familiar, defiant angle, as if he was daring the other boy to say or do something - Burt didn't know what that was about, but he would find out.

When Puck moved out of the way, Kurt looked up at his father. He didn't think he'd ever seen his dad so... pissed. Or worried. "Dad," he started, faltered under the weight of that anger, even knowing that it wasn't really directed at him. He could feel the warmth of his glee-mates, to use Rachel's word, all around him. Even after what was probably the worst day of his life since his mother's funeral, after the isolation of the last several hours, nearly every member of Glee had felt the need to reach out, to reassure him, or themselves with a gentle hug, or a pat on the shoulder or a handclasp. Even this moment, all of them were in contact in some way: Mercedes sat close with her arm around his shoulders, Quinn on his other side holding his hand. Artie's chair was right up against his knee, and Tina, standing beside Artie, holding his hand. Finn's hand, warm and solid on his shoulder, Matt and Mike to each side, had each ruffled his hair as they had taken their places, and Rachel, who had hugged him carefully as she had gone to stand with Finn, tucked under his arm. Brittany sat cross-legged at Kurt's feet, leaning against his leg, her arm wrapped just below his knee, her pinky linked with Santana's. Santana herself, who had given him a long look, then placed herself at the front of the group, between him and his father, looking fierce even in profile. Only Puck stood alone, only Puck had not made a gesture towards him... but Puck's eyes smoldered with a barely contained wrath that promised violence.

Finn spoke up behind him. "We heard what you said, Kurt. That they said they'd do it again, to you or Artie or one of the girls, or... whatever, if you told anyone."

Rachel added, "It doesn't matter. Your dad's right, you don't have to keep quiet to protect us. Giving in to that kind of threat never works anyway. There are studies that show... " She trailed off when Schuester shook his head at her, but there were murmurs of assent all around him.

Puck's voice was a growl from the other side of the group. "And we know who it was anyway. They were bragging about it less than two hours ago." Kurt was astonished to hear what sounded like a touch of guilt in Puck's voice under the clear promise that he planned to introduce Karofsky and Azimio to a new world of pain.

Mike chimed in, "But we thought it was... just your coat."

"We all thought... you were safe at the salon. That you were ok," Mercedes told him tearfully. "If we'd thought..."

Brittany had scooped up his phone from Mr. Schue's desk, and now she shook it with surprising violence. "You need to get a new phone, Kurt. This one isn't nice. It wouldn't let you talk to me when you needed us to find you."

Santana took the phone from her gently, returning it to Kurt. "The creep called Brittany from your phone. It upset her. We could hear you in the background. Then the line went dead," she explained, trying to sound bored, though she was rubbing Brit's arm soothingly. Brit still looked upset.

Burt cleared his throat, making all the kids look up. "So, Kurt. There's no point in not telling me who is responsible for this. I'll just ask _him_," he waved a hand toward Puck, who glared down at his shoes.

"A-all right," Kurt finally said slowly - there really was no point anymore. This wasn't going to go away this time. And if he told his father what he wanted to know, he'd have to relent and let Kurt stay here, right? He was bluffing to get Kurt to talk, he had to be. No way he'd take him out of school.

But it would be easier if everyone wasn't staring at him. If his dad wasn't looking at him like that. He took one more deep breath, hiding a wince when it sent twinges through his chest, and let it out, slowly.

"It was Azimio, and Karofsky. They... followed me in here when I came back for my jacket and my phone. I... may have been a little sarcastic, but they were gonna... do something, anyway. And then," He gestured shakily towards the closet, "I guess they thought they were being clever. Karofsky came back a while ago, and I thought he was going to let me out..." Kurt closed his eyes and swallowed hard, giving himself a moment for his voice to steady again.

"But he didn't, and I... got upset." Kurt Hummel, King of Understatement. He _hated_ that _anyone_ had heard that. He opened his eyes again, found himself staring at the ring of bruising around his wrist where it lay on his lap, and went on, "That's what Brittany heard, I guess. I don't know why he picked her, unless it was so he could say he'd tried to get one of my friends to come get me. I didn't even know he was using the phone."

He looked over at Will. "Do you really think they'll get expelled?"

Will nodded. "We'll need as much evidence as we can get, including whatever Puck witnessed. But I'm pretty sure they will. It will mean that you'll have to come forward and tell Principal Figgins what happened." He looked over as Burt straightened and nodded firmly.

"Until they are," Mr. Hummel announced on a tone that brooked no argument, "I'm not letting you come back here. I mean it," he said sharply, cutting off Kurt's protest with a _look _- and silencing the murmur of protest from the other kids before it even began. "I'm not giving them or their friends a chance to retaliate against you for whatever happens to them. And I intend to take this all the way to court to make sure they're gone before I let you set foot in McKinley again."

He turned to Shuester. "This school has failed my son for the last time." Schuester looked down, flushing. "He doesn't think I know what happens. But... I hear things. I see the dry-cleaning bills, I notice when he comes home wearing something different than he wore to school. I can see when he's not moving right, when he's banged up, and he blames it on cheerleading or dancing, but it started long before he started doing either one." He looked at Kurt, who was staring at him in stunned silence. "It half kills me, kid. Like I said, I know you hafta fight some of this on your own, that it doesn't get any better if your dad comes down here like an overprotective maniac. But this is over the line."

"But I thought-" Kurt sputtered, only to be cut off by a firm, "No, Kurt. This is not going to be a debate. Carmel has a music program, you can join that."

Kurt shook his head violently. "Never!" he spat furiously, though Burt could see the glitter of tears beginning to form. "I'd never sing for them."

Mr. Schuester approached the miserable little knot of kids. Artie slowly rolled his chair aside to allow him to crouch in front of Kurt, eye-to-eye with him. "Your father is absolutely right, Kurt." He looked down at Kurt's hands (where Mercedes cradled the bruised one and Quinn held the other) when the glimmer of fresh tears filled Kurt's eyes. "If it isn't safe for you, here, if this school has become too toxic, you need to be somewhere else. At least until we can find a way to fix it."

"And you should absolutely join Vocal Adrenaline. Your talent should not go to waste."

"But Mr. Schue-"

He paused, because this went against everything he wanted to say. Because he was going to lose that voice and he'd never really even let it be heard when he decided what the group would sing, and now he knew he would regret it. "Hear me out, please, Kurt. You have an extraordinary voice, and you should use it. Shelby Corcoran will nurture that talent; help you make the most of it. Don't let what's happening silence that voice, Kurt. It won't help you, and it won't help us, if you do that."

All around them, Burt could hear a soft chorus of sniffling, an outright, quiet sobbing from Quinn and Mercedes, and even the tough-looking Cheerio was dabbing at her eyes, when she wasn't glaring around as if she wanted to bite something. The blonde one - Brittney?- that Kurt had "dated" had her face buried in the brunette's neck, and the other girl was absently rocking her gently and stroking her hair, the gentleness of her hands and voice at odds with her fierce expression.

Even Rachel wasn't taking care to "cry pretty" like Kurt had complained so much about - her eye makeup was running down her cheeks when she raised her head from her hands. The boys were doing their best to be stoic and strong, but they shuffled their feet and avoided looking up at anyone. Finn glanced at him and back away again, his face blotchy and eyes bright with tears he refused to let fall, and Puckerman was scowling so fiercely at the floor that Burt was a little afraid that he'd give himself a stroke. He hated that this was tearing them all up so much, but, really, what else could he do?

When he cleared his throat once again, the kids all looked up at him, and he almost lost his resolve. How was he gonna do this? He'd known for a long time how hard it was for Kurt to find friends, and it was clear that he had them here. How could he take them away from Kurt now?

Then Kurt raised his head from Mercedes' shoulder, and he could see the deepening bruises on his face. That was a heck of a shiner, and he was lucky that was all it was. "Come on, Kurt." He hoped his voice sounded stronger, firmer to them than it did to him. "Let's go home."

He watched his son slowly rise and gently disentangle himself from the group, almost every one of them reaching out to pat him on the shoulder, or hug him, or take his hand. Mercedes clung to him for a long moment, weeping, and he whispered to her for a moment. "I'm not going, Mercedes. Give me a couple of days to talk him 'round..." He looked at Matt pleadingly, and the other boy eased her off Kurt's shoulder to support her against his own, where she clung . Quinn just reached up, fingertips ghosting feather-light over the bruise on his cheekbone, and smiled tremulously before putting an arm around Rachel and sinking back into their chairs. Tina rose from where she'd been huddled in Artie's lap to hug him, and he bent to hug Artie as well. Puck just glared fiercely at his own shoes, glancing up only after Kurt had moved past him with a barely audible sigh.

Kurt stopped in front of Finn, started to shrug out of the bigger boy's jacket, but Finn shook his head. "I'll get it later," he mumbled, then reached impulsively to squeeze Kurt's shoulder carefully. Kurt looked up at him for a long, thoughtful moment, then handed him the keys to the Navigator. "Get her home safe, ok?" he said with an attempt at his normal tone. Finn looked shocked, opened his mouth and closed it a couple of times, then nodded. And Burt found that he couldn't bring himself to protest. Finn looked even more devastated than he had the other night, when he'd looked over Burt's shoulder at Kurt and realized what it meant to use that _word._

As Kurt passed the desk where Mr. Schuester leaned, the teacher looked up. "Kurt—just remember, we're here for you, and… we all care about you."

At the door, Kurt turned back to look at the group "Look, guys… I'm ok, really." He shot a look at his dad that was full of his characteristic defiance and raised his chin in that Kurt-Hummel-is-taking-no-more-of-this-nonsense way they had all seen a hundred times, letting the motion straighten his spine and square his shoulders. "I'm not about to let this … break me, or anything melodramatic like that. It just… knocked the wind out of me, that's all. _I will be __**fine**_**.**" But his confidence faltered as he looked at his father, who looked like he'd aged twenty years since he'd come into the music room, and Kurt went on out into the hallway.

At the door, Burt paused, turned back, and waited till his son was out of earshot. "You know someone was throwing him into the dumpster a couple of mornings a week? 'S how he'd start his day."

Schue dropped heavily into the chair Kurt had vacated (remembering _boys gathered in a group near a dumpster, Kurt in the middle, looking frankly miserable, Puck's arm draped over his shoulder, gripping his shoulder a little too hard, Finn standing next to him. And his own blind denial, because they couldn't __**really **__be about to… could they_?) - He didn't dare look at Puck or Finn. Or the tears in Mr. Hummel's own eyes.

"My_ kid_. Like …he was trash." Burt's voice was tight with barely-controlled emotion. "Like he wasn't worth… anything. Because of _who he is_. He's different, so he's… nothing?" Burt looked around at all the kids, clinging to each other, looking at him with those sad eyes. Finn had sunk down to sit on the edge of the risers, his face buried in his hands, and Puck had turned his back to them, but one hand rested white-knuckled on Finn's shoulder. "He never says a word to me. He's tough… but if they're gonna hurt him like this…. I can't let it go on anymore. Someday, you'll get it. When you have a kid of your own." Quinn sobbed, folding her arms protectively over her baby bump, and Puck flinched visibly. Burt shot one more look at Schuester, in the middle of the group now, shook his head, and followed his son out of the school.


	15. Chapter 15

The rest of Friday night and most of Saturday had been kind of a blur. Much to Kurt's initial dismay, Burt had insisted on taking him to the emergency room to get checked out, and once they were there, Kurt had to admit, if only to himself, that he was a little concerned. He'd hit the risers hard enough to raise a good sized lump on the back of his head, and it turned out he did have a concussion. While he'd been pretty sure his shoulder wasn't dislocated and his wrist wasn't actually broken, it had been a relief to confirm that both were just sprained and bruised. That his cheekbone and ribs weren't fractured. That he was really ok. Mostly.

And the painkillers they'd given him for the sprains and aches were pretty amazing.

But he'd really had to bite his tongue when the doctor had taken advantage of his father leaving the room (to fill out paperwork) to grill him about the fight (and he could hear the doubtful air-quotes around it when the man spoke), and on his relationship with his Dad, and reassure him that if he was being abused, help was available. He was so tired by then, he had heard himself start to get sarcastic and snide with them, and he'd had to stop and remind himself that they didn't know his Dad, didn't realize that Burt was his hero, his only real champion. Once he'd done that, he found that he wasn't mad at his Dad any more for dragging him here and making him go through this.

He wasn't happy, though, when he'd been told it was necessary to let them photograph the horrible looking black-and-blue bruising on his face and chest (and arms, and back), for evidence. It was humiliating - and it scared him. Because it meant that this had gone _so _completely out of his control, and wouldn't, couldn't, be ignored.

On the one hand, it was almost a relief that the bullying was finally getting some attention, that his Dad knew now, and wouldn't let it be swept under the rug.

On the other hand, he hated how it made him feel like he didn't even know how to be himself anymore, like this... event... had redefined him, not only to all of his friends, and his family, but to himself.

He hated it. He didn't want to be this person, this _victim._ He just wanted to hide until the bruises faded and then try to go on as if it had never happened. But every time someone looked at him and he saw worry in their eyes, every time he had to tell the story and re-live it all again, every time he looked into the mirror and saw this battered stranger staring back at him, it made the whole thing real again. Made him feel helpless and angry and _trapped_ in this nightmare scenario all over again.

He wanted, more than anything, to be able to forget it. To put it behind him, pretend it hadn't happened. But that wasn't going to happen this time, and it was more than a little scary, not knowing how things were going to change, or how people would look at him now.

Then Saturday, and the police station. He had wanted to let it go, but his father was not going to budge on this one, even though they both knew how it was likely to go - and it went pretty much as Kurt had thought it would. Endless questions, endless repetitions of what had happened, repeating the same story to three different officers, all of whom seemed skeptical at best, like they were trying to get him to admit that it had been his fault, somehow, and then having to take his shirt off to be photographed and have his injuries documented. Again.

It was absolutely humiliating, as if the whole ordeal hadn't been bad enough. He - and his dad, clearly - resented the implication that somehow it was his fault just for being there, alone, and the further implication that it was his own fault just for being _himself. _Like they knew anything at all about him_._

Kurt had gone out of his way to dress down for this, too - not that he'd felt much like his usual fabulous self anyway. Trying to keep it simple, so he'd be taken seriously, he'd made it a Prada day, wearing the classic jeans and dress shirt - not even a tie, or a brooch in sight. What were they judging _him_ for- his voice, the way he walked, sat, stood, spoke? Like that made it ok to _hit_ him, and leave him trapped in the school over the weekend where he seriously could have _died _all alone and he had to stop thinking like that because he did not need to have a panic attack in front of all these stupid police officers.

There had been one cop he'd really thought his dad would punch. After Burt had finally gone off on him, they had given the case to another officer, a more sympathetic, younger man. At least _he_ hadn't insinuated that Kurt was to blame.

After taking the report, they'd let the Hummels go home. They'd promised to look into things. Investigations would be carried on. All the right things were said. But Kurt knew that it would be, first of all, his word against theirs (and he had little faith in how _that_ would go), and secondly, probably played off as just "boys being boys," if it were followed up on at all. This was the rural Midwest, boys got into fist fights. It was almost a rite of passage, and certainly nothing to press charges over (except, as Burt kept angrily pointing out, that it had been two against one, and the two were each twice Kurt's size).

But Kurt was sure that come Monday morning, the whole thing would be dropped for "lack of evidence" and they'd be back at square one, with his dad insisting that he was going to be shipped off to live with (great-)Aunt Mildred the alcoholic, three blocks away from Carmel High School, and transferring out of McKinley.

He'd gone straight to his room when they got home, and ignored his phone, his computer, and his father. He had pretended to be asleep with his back to the room when Mercedes had crept down the stairs to visit, and even though he was sure he hadn't really fooled her, she'd finally given up, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek and remind him that she'd be waiting, when he was ready to talk to her. All the glee kids would.

When Finn had brought him a dinner tray, he'd just glared at the other teen until, after several failed attempts at starting a conversation, Finn had given up,too, leaving the tray on the vanity and fleeing the room.

And of course, immediately after each of them had left, he'd wished he had talked to them. A hug from Mercedes always made him feel better, and... Finn was really trying. Finn wanted to make it better, somehow, and clearly didn't know what to do, but he was making a real effort. All of the glee club were anxious to do something to help. And it meant so much to him that they had _all,_even Santana, even _Puck,_ come to look for him. They'd come to rescue him.

He just hated that he'd _needed _to be rescued.

He just didn't seem to know how to act around anyone. Maybe when the bruises faded, when what had happened wasn't literally written on his face anymore, he'd feel more like himself, and be able to face the world again.

Author's note:Kurt's dress shirt: .com/PRADA-Dress-Slim-Fit-Shirt-42?manufacturers_id=6


	16. Chapter 16

_**Monday: Finn**_

The weekend had been weird. He'd driven the Navigator back to the Hummel's (both _scared,_ because Kurt seriously loved this thing like he loved his McQueen collection, and he'd kill Finn if it got damaged, and _thrilled_ that Kurt had trusted him with it at all) to meet his mom, and fill her in on what had happened, and she'd immediately started cooking. Burt had called to let them know they were at the ER, and by the time they got home, she'd made a huge pot of chicken soup. And he and his mom had stayed there pretty much all weekend, with his mom cooking ridiculous amounts of food and trying to coax Kurt, and Burt, to eat, and a quiet little battle about Kurt leaving McKinley simmering between the Hummels.

And then all weekend, Kurt had avoided Finn. He had avoided everyone, really, even Mercedes.

Finn couldn't look directly at Kurt all weekend; it seemed like the other boy was trying to avoid everyone's eyes. But he also couldn't help sneaking looks at him, either. The guys had really messed him up, and he looked just awful.

It was more than just the bruises, too. There was a look in his eyes that Finn had never seen there before, not even that time they'd cornered him in the hallway. He looked...there was so much anger in his eyes, even worse after the Hummels had come back from the police station. And a sadness, or... well, Finn wasn't even sure what. Not "_giving up_" but something like "_really tired of this crap_." Sort of "_Why is this still happening to me, because it's been going on a really long time and isn't this enough yet?"_

When he thought about it Finn realized it really had been going on for as long as he'd known Kurt. Karofsky and Azimio had been a problem for Kurt, he knew, ever since they had started high school, really. It had started small, with little practical jokes, and Finn (and Puck) had gone along with it for a long time. He could kinda remember the first time the four of them had run into Kurt. Well, at least to notice him. The first couple of weeks of school, Kurt hadn't really stood out too much; he'd dressed like the other boys, in tee-shirts and jeans.

But the minute he'd opened his mouth (they'd been messing around in the hallway, and had practically run him over, which had earned them one of his smart-mouth comments, delivered in that now-familiar high-pitched voice with a tone of sarcastic superiority), they'd just _known_.

Finn was starting to think about the fact that for Kurt, this had been going on for a long time - those same kids from middle school had been picking on him since then, and that those irritating things Kurt said were his way of getting back at bigger kids who shoved him around or made crude jokes about him or called him names He remembered now that some of the other kids from the middle school Kurt had come from had been in their homerooms, and they made fun of him all the time. .

Within a week, the whole school was in on it. Everyone made fun of him, made comments behind his back (or loudly, in the hallways). Then he'd started dressing weirder, and there was his attitude, like he was so much better and smarter than everyone around him. It had been irritating. .

So when someone (Finn couldn't remember who) had first thrown spitballs or wadded up paper, it hadn't seemed like a big deal... they all did stuff like that. Finn had never given it a second thought, really.

It had progressed from there, to shoulder-checking him into lockers. Throwing him into the dumpster. Throwing stuff at him, like really gross stuff -some of this stuff really made Finn really uncomfortable just thinking of it now. He'd just gone along with the crowd. Even after Kurt had slushied himself for Finn... (which Finn had just figured was part of the stupid crush thing, so was it really a 'noble' thing to do? Yeah, Finn had to admit after some thought, it really still kinda was.)

He'd just never thought about what it would feel like, to be thrown in the dumpster, until Burt had said that. That way. Just because, as Burt had said, of who he was, who he couldn't help being.

Sure, he'd felt bad when "the gay kid" - that was how he'd thought of him, or as "the fag," though he hated that word now, and hated that he'd ever used it- had seemed really upset about some jacket or scarf or something getting ruined by particularly slimy dumpster contents. He'd felt bad enough to intervene... but only to make sure that whatever stupidly expensive thing Kurt had worn or carried to school didn't always go into the dumpster with him. Enough to save Kurt's clothes... not enough to stop them from putting Kurt himself into the dumpster.

In the end, he'd just walked away from it... he hadn't really tried to stop it, even after he'd gotten to know Kurt. It had only stopped because Kurt was wearing a Cheerios uniform so much of the time now, and almost everyone was terrified of what Coach Sylvester might do.

In fact... Finn didn't envy Karofsky and Azimio their Monday morning. Bad enough when Figgins found out (and he really didn't want to think about that, since Figgins would have to deal with Burt, who was terrifying when he was angry) but _Coach Sylvester_? They might never be seen again.

Not that they didn't totally deserve it, messing with Kurt like that. It was scary to think that they'd really gone ahead and done this. They'd really followed up on their threats, and he'd never thought they would.

It was even scarier to think that they could have done worse. His mind shied away from that thought. If he started thinking about the "what ifs?" here, he'd make himself sick thinking of all the ways it could have been so much worse, or gone so very wrong.

And now, he sat at the table in the Hummels' kitchen, while Burt and his mom held some sort of silent but very intense conversation over Kurt's head and Kurt slumped at the table, still in his PJs an hour before school was supposed to start on a Monday morning, and scowled into the bowl of cereal he wasn't eating. Because Kurt wasn't going to school, at least not to _go to school_, and he wasn't happy about it. He and Burt were going in a little after school started to meet with Figgins, and Finn was guessing that Kurt didn't really want to. His face still looked really bad, in the way that bruising always looks so much worse a couple of days later. It was gonna be spectacular in a week or so, when it reached the purple/green/brown phase. At least it wasn't so puffy now.

Finn would have liked to take the day off, too, but he didn't want to miss basketball practice. Besides, he was _sure_ he didn't want to spend another day with a pair of Hummels who were giving each other a wide berth and the silent treatment (though he had also come home - well, back to the Hummel's - to find them hugging each other fiercely in the kitchen on Sunday afternoon, with Kurt rather obviously crying and Burt's own eyes suspiciously bright. Their arguments were weird like that.)

He got his things together and headed for school. It was really gonna be an _interesting_ day.


	17. Chapter 17

Wednesday: Jesse

Jesse St James was, in a word, pissed (_an inelegant turn of phrase, but an expressive one_). He'd transferred to this back-end-of-nowhere school, where no one truly understood, let alone appreciated, his talent, taken the time to "befriend" the extremely annoying (_but frighteningly talented_) Rachel Berry and charm her into spending time with him, made her his "girlfriend" over the protest of every sane part of him. (_Though, he had to admit, she did grow on one, and could be amazingly sweet, very cute in a strange way, and astonishingly passionate, even if she stopped him cold at first base._) He'd joined their little Glee Club and after weeks of the endless drama (_and the whining from lesser talents about "not getting solos" and the prima donna behavior of, well, their prima donna- which he had to admit, he encouraged almost without thinking, since it kept the group fractured and resentful, creating a flaw he could leverage if it was needed later_), he was astonished to recognize that they really posed a threat to Vocal Adrenaline... but they did.

Their harmonies were tight, and while their dance moves and choregraphy were not as polished was VA's... they had something VA didn't. Something he couldn't define. It was partly that they all kept coming back, week after week, even though they knew it just kept them all on the last rung of the social scale. Even though so many of them had to know that as long as Rachel and Finn (and, modestly, he himself) were there and ready to perform, the lesser lights didn't stand a chance of getting a moment in the spotlight for themselves, no matter how good they were.

And those lesser lights were surprisingly talented. He'd nearly fallen out of his chair in shock when he'd heard the usually shrewish Hummel sing one afternoon, he and Mercedes just messing around at the piano before practice, and realized they had a _counter-tenor_- one with a pretty astonishing range- until he'd realized that Schuester had no idea what to do with him and just tended to use him to fill in the soprano line when Rachel sang lead, and that the Glee coach had barely even paid attention to the boy's lower range.

He'd had a bad moment when Kurt and Mercedes had joined the Cheerios, especially when Schuester had approached them after the performance during "Madonna week" (_and thank GOD that was over, and his finely-tuned ears were no longer under assault_). But all Schuester had done was scold them for their disloyalty and slink off when they stood up to him.

The man was... well. He seemed determined to try to beat Vocal Adrenaline by following their chosen model: one star vocalist and a backup group, surrounded by a flashy stage show. After spending even a short time with them, Jesse felt sure that as long as they were trying to beat VA at their own game, that threat would never fully materialize. Now, if Schuester had looked at their little rag-tag group, and decided to use their strengths and downplay their seeming weaknesses (_their dozen voices to VA's score and more, the lack of support from the school forcing them to do more with less, but also ensuring that they'd never be able to compete with VA on volume or showmanship). _ If - when -Schuester could wrap his head around that and really use the diverse voices at his command, then they'd be a force to be reckoned with.

The point was, he thought angrily as he dodged away from a group of red-jacketed thugs, he'd come here, he'd given up the top of the social ladder to join the socially retarded, bottom-of-the-barrel Glee club here at McKinley. He'd given up being the king of his school to come here and risk slushie attacks ruining his perfect curls, administered by cavemen who would be pumping his gas or asking him if he wanted fries with that (_if he ate fast food, which he didn't_) in three years, and, at least as far as _she_ knew, it had all been for Rachel. He'd left everything behind for her, as far as she knew. And what had she done? When the club was in crisis, when one of their own had been missing, in trouble, had she called him, her _actual _boyfriend? The man who had giving up everything for her?

No. She'd turned to Finn. Again. She'd never even thought of him. The whole stupid Glee club had ended up called in like the freakin' cavalry. Except for Jesse. He'd come in to school after a weekend of rehearsals with VA -he'd told Rachel he was on a college visit, out of town for the weekend, but still,she could have called, prepared him for all of this. Should have called him and cried on _his_ shoulder (so to speak) while he put her on speaker while he was in video chat with his teammates.

She should have let him know, _at least_, that walking into school Monday morning would be like walking into a war zone - on the losing side. Since Monday he'd been slushied twice and threatened by several behemoths with very little evidence of any knowledge of personal grooming.

_Threatened._ At Carmel, the jocks avoided him, some of them intimately aware of just how hard - and fast-he could kick after all those years of dance training (_can't play football/hockey/basketball/whatever without functioning __**knees,**__ can you, boys?_), and that the school would back their star. Anyone could field a football team (_well, anyone except for McKinley, apparently)_ but Vocal Adrenaline was Carmel's golden goose, and their star performer was undisputed king of the corridors.

He was _Jesse St. James_, he thought angrily, even as he manufactured a smile for her and kissed her good morning, one eye keeping a wary watch over her shoulder for more of the jocks who seemed to make her a favored target for their icy missiles. He should be ruling over Carmel High, not dodging dousings with frozen corn syrup. Keeping that smile firmly in place to hide his simmering fury, he asked her, "So what's the word on Kurt?"

That was all it took to set her off on an indignant and long-winded rant, delivered in a stage-whisper, even as she linked her arm through his and started off down the hallway. He forced himself to try to pay attention to her rambling instead of watching her bounce as they walked down the hallway (_anger did something to her walk that he had to admit did something to his hormones_).

"Principal Figgins says that the lawyers have told him that the video Coach Sylvester took of the attack in the choir room can't be used since the cameras were there in an unofficial capacity and the recordings aren't admissible in a court of law, which makes it Kurt's word against theirs. It's ridiculous!" She huffed angrily, shaking her head and finally pausing for breath. She went on and on about "the gay panic defense" and he tuned her out until she mentioned that after the disappointing reaction of the administration on Monday, Kurt would definitely be transferring from McKinley... to Carmel.

"Wait, what?" he asked in shock. "Carmel? Why?"

"His father's aunt? Lives over there?" Rachel shook her head; she hadn't really paid attention to much beyond the possibility that her nearest rival at McKinley would now be attending the school with the rival show choir- Jesse's former team, at that. "I don't know. The _point _is that he's going to join Vocal Adrenaline, he won't be able to resist it. He's too much a performer to really stay out of the competition. I know I wouldn't be able to. And that's going to be really bad for our group morale, even if he's just doing backup vocals." She looked up at him finally, and realized he was glowering at her, and stopped in her tracks. "Is this a problem for you Jesse?" she asked sharply.


End file.
